


The Seventh & Last

by Poplitealqueen



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Because the afterlife can get pretty dull, Dead peanut gallery, Durin Family, Durin Feels, Dwarves of Erebor - Freeform, Easterlings of Rhûn, F/M, Fourth Age, Gondor, Haradrim of Near Harad, Hobbit Children, Lets see how the kids are doing, Lots of Determamfidd's Dwarves because they are all just awesome, M/M, Noncanon Hobbits, Other, POC hobbits, Past Lives, Physical Disability, Stupid people running off without a plan must be catching, Survivor Guilt, Sweet merciful Mahal I hope this doesn't backfire, The Gardner Family, Variags of Khand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2047932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poplitealqueen/pseuds/Poplitealqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PLEASE NOTE, THIS IS ON A PERMANENT HIATUS. - December 10th, 2017</p><p><strong>"And a strange fate is on him, that turns never home."</strong><br/>-Roverandom by J.R.R Tolkien</p><p> Nearly eighty years after the end of the War of the Ring, a terrible cave-in deep within the heart of the Lonely Mountain changes the fate of the Line of Durin forever. Crippled and unable to become the hero promised to his people, Durin VII Son of Thorin Son of Dáin flees the only home he's ever known under cover of darkness. Where he might end up, only the winds may tell. </p><p>*Based on the utterly extraordinary Sansûkh, which I try to do justice as best I can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [determamfidd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/gifts).



> Inspired by the fantasmaeuphoric fic that is Sansûkh by determamfidd. 
> 
> And by those that live through the worst of things.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!  
> -Poplitealqueen

It _has been 80 years since the Downfall of the Dark Tower ,and the True Death of Sauron; 80 years of peace, and plenty. In the White City of Minas Tirith, King Elessar Telcontar sits upon his throne of carven stone, teaching the ways of the old life to his children: the Crown Prince Eldarion and his sisters, Princesses Gilraen and Niphredil, and hopes this new era of peace will last._

_The north finally knows a world without war._

_Nestled amongst endless golden plains, the realms of the Rohirrim are ruled by the Fair King Elfwine, son of Éomer Éadig ._

_Far to the south, drowned in seas of sand, the tribes of Harad bow to the High King of Gondor- some willingly, others with a back all but broken with the strain._

_They prepare for a war only they can see, a darkness fouler than sin bubbling up from the farthest reaches of the east._

_The south knows better._

_But the land of Mordor remains ever silent, though the Easterlings fear to tread too deep within its decaying borders._

_The east never truly forgot._

_The territory that was once the domain of the Traitor Wizard, Saruman, is now known as the Treegarth of Osgiliath- a lush forest deep and dark, guarded by Treebeard the Ent, who in turn is protected by the Lord of Fangorn Forest, Legolas of Lasgalen._

_Nearby, in a cave of many glittering gems- a wonder to behold-it is said that the Elven Lord of Fangorn's One rules: Lord Gimli Elf-Friend._

_And in the distant Shire, time stands still for the Little Folk. Thanks to the careful ministrations of King Elessar, danger only touches those who seek it there._

_Yet the west remembers better than most, how fragile their peace really is._

_The world has become a beautiful, if wary, place._

_But with new beauty, the death of the old is imminent._

_The grandeur of  Lothlórien  is but a humble dream amidst ruins and flowers now._

_The Last Homely House doesn't see many occupants now, save dreadful sprites and wary travelers._

_In the ethereal Greenwood, the Elvenking sits upon his throne of vines, ever to remain._

_And lastly, in the furthest fringes of Eriador sits the lonely Kingdom of Erebor, as stoic and everlasting as the stone it is built from, ruled by the Line of Durin. Many heroes have bled and died for its gold-tinged halls, but did they ever really know its true worth? For deep within the Mountain's heart a secret rests in the clutches of bones._

_It is there this story begins, with a tragedy of sorts._


	2. Deep in the Dark Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh-ho, man. ANGST!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I delve too deep into the wonderful world of a fanfiction of another fanfiction of a work that is, arguably, a giant Celtic Myth fanfiction, I wanna say a few things.
> 
> Firstly, this is all conjecture. There isn't much information on the Fourth Age, and what little there is was published post-humorously, so chances are it may have been in the roughy stages. The same can be said when it comes to the Easterlings, Haradrim, and Variags in the books, so it falls to whatever I can gleen online and elsewhere to make them believable. Who knows what more Tolkien would have added or edited? I like to think that what I've put together and twisted about is alright, but in the end that's for you to decide.  
> Secondly, this goes for any character or what have you that I've borrowed from determamfidd, too. As of now, her stupendous story isn't finished, and I'm unsure what may happen to some of her characters. That means a lot of this, particularly Erebor, is guesswork. Chances are, her fic will take a different turn, so just think of mine as ...an AU? Yeah, that.  
> Lastly, I'll try to explain in the end comments of every chapter what is Tolkien lore, Determamfidd lore, or my own twisted truth of both or neither.  
> It'll be fun!  
> Anywho, enjoy.  
> -Pop

 

  ** _"Guilt is a weight that will crush you whether you deserve it or not." - Maureen Johnson_**

* * *

_ Deathless _ . It's the first word that came to mind as Durin found his way back into the waking world.  It had been the title of his first namesake, the one who had taught the world an important lesson: that anyone can die. 

Yet oddly enough, Durin had never considered it anything important.

It seemed as common as a cold, to die.

It was so easy, he thought, it was almost laughable. Folks died everyday, from things as stupid as choking on a chicken bone to fighting in a war...why then was it so important that one Dwarf had died hundreds of years ago, or that another had died before that, and another before that? It mattered only that he shared a name with them, and that he could recall exactly how each one had perished, down to their last rapid thoughts.

Alvís had always liked to tease him for it, the fact that he thought it all so stupid. _It doesn't matter how they died_ , he'd liked to point out.  _Only why. If they hadn't none of us would know how to, eh?_

...Wait. His head thrummed like a hammer glancing off the edge of an anvil. His ears rang, but it was quiet where he lay. Where was he? Where was that rock-brained fool Alvís?

As the young dwarf glanced about in the dusty darkness, searching for some bubble of light, he found himself nose-to-nose with the remains of his friend.

_No. No, not again._

Durin reached out to cup the other dwarf's cheek, his arm burning with a strange pain. Alvís had never been a pretty dwarf. Even in the choking darkness his crooked and ruddy nose was obvious, jutting out like an accusatory thumb to barely press against the straight bridge of Durin's own. His eyes, sloping and small and the color of mud, were now nothing more than dull bulbs offering thin points of light in the dark. What graces he'd been given had awarded him with a particular skill in bead-carving, something Durin had always been jealous of. Alvís had gained an apprenticeship quicker than most, and even Durin had commissioned a few for him and his friend to share. There was nothing to be had now, though, of the shattered remnants of them, which he could feel crunching beneath him as he tried to move. Everything beautiful or wretched of Alvís had been equally crushed beneath the boulder atop them, his blood black in the darkness and clumps of brain matter squishing beneath Durin's fingers.

Some part of Durin urged him to cry at the sight, but he couldn't. The thumping in the back of his skull wouldn't allow it. It beat, low and deep like a distant drum, not allowing him even the reprieve of grief. He instead pulled his hand hastily away from what was left of Alvís, and squinted his eyes up into the shadows above. He strained to catch a sound that wasn't the crackle of broken rock.

There! Were those voices he heard, or the sifting of earth? Voices...no.  _Footsteps_. The beat of a boot against stone, the slide of a slipper. Each one caused the granite above him to shift and groan a little more. He tried hard not to breathe. He'd learned long ago that stone reacted to even the smallest of things, even if it took an age or more to make a great shift. His father liked to say that it was exactly how Dwarves were, solid and slow to change, but it only scared Durin-- the unknown of it. For all he knew, he was dead already- crushed beneath a boulder that hadn't even fallen yet.

Maybe those above would find him before then..?

Hope bloomed in his chest, and for an instant he forgets exactly where he is-- what he lay beside, held down by a horrendous weight on his body with every gulp of air stinging on its way down his throat. _Is one shout worth it_ , he thought?  _Will they find me in time? No, not just me_ , Durin berated himself.  _Us_. _It's too dark to know for sure if Alvís is truly gone. Perhaps he was just knocked cold. Yes! The fool has a hard enough skull to survive one bloody boulder to the head._  He blinked as his vision swam. He felt as though he was floating on a cloud...

He shook his head, tasting dirt and blood on his lips. Something, some far off memory, urged him to remain awake. Though he didn't feel tired in the least, his eyelids felt heavy. Durin forced his thoughts to imagine something outside this dark tomb.

Durin imagined his mother, brown eyes alight with anger and worry. _'Amad will have my head, no doubt_. He could already imagine her with her long ginger hair frayed. She'd forget to braid it before frantically searching for them, because she was the type that would never sit around and simply let the guards do all the work. No, she would tear her fingernails off digging through solid stone to reach hi-  _them_  if she knew they were trapped. His 'adad would follow her lead no doubt, rallying the entire mountain if he had to.

But as Durin continued to lay there, choking on the silence, there was no change in the sounds above, save that they grew softer and softer. With each passing second, his panic grew worse. It was sudden and unwelcome, for he'd thought he knew what death felt like.

But he didn't know the taste of it, only the memory of it.

He'd always known the day would come when he would follow the path of his forebears. Hadn't that been why he'd been named after the First? _'Adad says it's because I'll one day do something grand, like all the other Durins before me._  But he knew better. The only thing that he was destined to do was die like all the others had before him; to become a martyr for some cause or another. Maybe that included a miracle of some sort, maybe it didn't. Yet he had accepted that as his fate--even welcomed it. Perhaps then death might mean more to him. Perhaps then he could lay these moldy memories to rest at long last.  _And return to my Maker's Halls once and for all._   Part of him rejoiced at the thought, but the other, the part of him that was still little more than a child, shuddered. He just hadn't thought it would come so soon, not again. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes, spilling down the sides of his face and into his ears. Was this to be it? Each sniff made his head pulse all the harder. He thought to bite his lip to keep from shouting, but why bother? The footsteps were gone--if they'd even actually been there at all. Alvís was dead, so why not follow...

He inhaled. 

Suddenly, it's flooded with light. He's drenched in it. Durin wants to cover his eyes but he can't, he can't, his arm won't do what he wishes it to. From where the light comes gushing in, a shadowy figure appears. Durin can't make out the features--for all he knows it's his Maker.

"Mahal," A voice, loud and abrasive to his ringing ears, says as if anticipating his thoughts. The deep dull ache in Durin's head leaps at the new stimulation. He groans and the specter leaps down to where he is.

"Over here!" the voice bellows as Durin fights to keep his eyes open. "OVER HERE!" Another figure appears behind the first, then another and another and another. Too many to count.

"Are they alive?" one asks.

"They won't be if we do not move this rubble!" The first of them answers. Durin can feel the back of a hand against his lips, testing his breath. "He yet lives. Tashfat! "

A chorus of voices answer the call, and the stones begin to shift. The diggers are relentless, and the work is child's play to a hardened and determined miner.

When it seems he is finally free, a susurrus of murmurs and gasps sound.

"Mahal's bloody hammer, so much blood--."

"Call the healer, now!"

"That quake did more damage than we thought, blast it all--"

"--is tha' the Prince!? An' Finrís's lad as well? What were they doing down there?!"

"--how did the Prince get here?"

"Inform the King and Queen immediately, they--"

The cacophony is deafening, and Durin can barely move. Even with the rubble pulled away, his body won't obey his commands. And his head...by the First's beard, it felt like someone had taken a hammer to it.

"Durin?" the first of the of the dwarves to find him had not left his side since. Warm arms are wrapped around him, and the voice sounds familiar. "Speak, lad!"

Through the thrumming behind his eyes, the face swims into focus. Dark features. Darker than most beneath the mountain, with an unadorned beard cut short and a mohawk running the length of his scalp beside rows of braids and blue tattoos. Severe and stolid, but Durin knew the Captain of the Royal Guard to be anything but.

"...Thorin?"

A wave of relief washed across the Captain's face.

"Aye, lad! Aye! I'd thought I'd lost you there.”

Durin's vision blurred, and the pain in his head seemed to offer a hand to him. "I-I can't..."

"Dur--?

 

 ~*~

He blinks. That's all he does. Once, and he's free of the shouts and myriad faces. Free from the horrid weight that wouldn't allow him control of a single limb. The room he's in is dark, not the oppressive sludge of the cave-in, but a quiet stillness. Nothing moves, and the air is fresh. Something warm is covering him-- a soft blanket. It's nestled halfway up his chest, allowing him him to see the crisscrossing of gauze across his shoulder and hairy chest.

Durin can feel the nervous tension of sleep leaving his body and making him itch to move about. But even trying to sit up leaves him gasping for breath.

"Easy now, lad!" A voice tells him. Durin looked off into the dark. Sitting not far from his bedside was Captain Thorin ,half hidden in shadow. His hair and beard are mussed up as if he'd been sleeping, but his dark eyes were sharp. He hopped up quick as a hare the moment Durin moved, and the Prince grabbed the strong hand offered to him in a horribly weak grip.

"Thorin?" gasped Durin as he leaned into the familiar touch. " What-Where-?"

A strong hand pressed on his shoulder, light but undeterred, and guided him to lie back against the pallet. Even after he grudgingly obeys, the hand stays.

Durin frowned up at the Captain. "What has happened, Thorin? Where are we? Where are my parents?"

A ghost of a smile plays across the Captain's face. "Easy lad, you of all people should recognize the infirmary after all the times you've been in here, an' the King and Queen are back in their chambers. It took two miners and Bursi to tear them from your side."

Though his tone was meant to sound light--much as it had when the Prince had been a Dwarfling too scared to enter the old catacombs-- Durin could easily tell that there is trouble behind it.

"...Aye, of course I recognize it." He admitted." I just wish I knew what I've done to get myself thrown in here this time."

"You mean you really don't recall?"

Durin shook his head.

Thorin sighs and pulled his hand away. "Well, best make myself comfortable then," He said as he pulled his chair across the granite floor towards the bed. The sharp sound made Durin wince. Thorin noticed, and offers an apologetic smile.

"Ah, I'm sorry lad, Gimrís said that may happen."

"What may happen?"

"Want a drink, lad? The pitcher's right there--"

"That what may happen, Thorin?' Durin growled, his impatience at the Captain's usual slow trot to the point fraying at his nerves quicker than it normally did. "I'd prefer t'know in this Age, if it pleases you."

Scowling, the Captain took his seat and pulled the pitcher and cup to his lap.

"Manners, boy, manners. She told me that the bump you got to the head might make things a little...hard t'bear for awhile. Meaning that loud noises an' bright lights will make ya even more irritable than you usually are," He finished pouring and handed the earthenware mug to Durin. He grasped it in his right (the other, the one bandaged along shoulder, was oddly numb) Durin stared into its contents without taking a sip.

"What in Mahal's name happened?" Durin murmured. "One minute, we were just sitting there an' the next..."

"A quake," Thorin ran a hand through the dark hair on his head, "Brought down the lowest and oldest of the tunnels, and woke up half the Mountain and the Dale-men as well. There wasn't anyone hurt except, well," the Captain jerked his chin at Durin and took a swig from his own mug.

_A quake?_  Durin's lips tightened.  _A damned quake?_

"So I'm to laze about in here 'til I'm better, is that it?" He growled, not taking his eyes from the mug.

The young Captain chuckled, but it seemed strangely forced.

"Don't act so glum. In a week's time you'll be back to your usual antics with--"

The Captain quickly snapped his mouth shut. When Durin glance: suspiciously at him, Thorin took a deep breath.

"Your Mum an' Pa should be around soon, once they finish talking with the bizarûnh. The quake sent them scurrying about like ants. Hah, ya should've seen the look on this one merchant's face, he--"

"Thorin?"

The Captain didn't pause in his jabber. It was a strange sight for Durin, to see the naturally taciturn dwarf so...talkative. He didn't like it one bit.

"--Barur may even stop by with some of those honey cakes of his-

"Thorin."

"--but hopefully they haven't told all your 'amad's siblings about ya, or its liable to become a real show in here--"

"Itkit, Thorin!"

The outburst finally stilled the tirade. Durin is gasping again, clutching at the still brimming cup of water. He's angry, more hurt than he's ever been, and his head is still banging with the noise. The dark of the cave comes creeping back: the dusty air, the crackle of broken beads beneath his shoulders, and...

He asked the question that'd been gnawing on his mind like a dog on an old bone.

"Will ya just tell me where Alvís is?"

The Captain wouldn't meet his gaze."It isn't my place to say," he said.

"Thorin."  _Don't let it be true. Mahal, please, let it be some night terror._ Durin gulped past the weight in his throat. "He's dead, isn't he?"

Even if the Captain had answered him, the look on his face told it all before his mouth could even open. A grimace of pity, and to Durin's eyes, blame.  _Who wouldn't blame you?_  He thought to himself.  _It was your fault; all of it your fault. You're supposed to know better._

Durin can feel the tears burning beneath his eyes, and he doesn't even try to stop them from flowing down into his beard.

With a sudden howl of rage, Durin hurled his mug at the far wall, watched as it shatters into a hundred pieces. He can't muster enough reason to care. He'd have thrown anything he could reach, but when he tried to lift his left arm it remained still, as if carved in rock. His heart seemed ready to burst from his chest as he looked up wildly at Thorin. The Captain wouldn’t cease with that thrice-damned pitying expression of his-- it made Durin want to punch him right in the nose.

He hated how hoarse and quiet his voice sounded. "My arm?" he asked.

The Captain laid a hand on his shoulder, the right one, the one he can still feel.

"Just go," Durin sniffed, shrugging off the hand. "Leave me be."

Watching him, Thorin stood slowly. "Take your time. I'll be close," was all he said.

With that, he turned and disappeared into the dark. Durin sat alone in his cot, head pounding and his arm still as stone. And he wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Khuzdul Translations**_  
>  - _Tashfat_ =to move fast  
> - _'amad_ =mother  
> - _'adad_ =father  
> - _itkit! _=Shut up!__  
>  - _bizarûnh_ =Dale Men  
>    
>  **Other Notes...**  
>  *Captain Thorin is NOT my OC. He belongs to the fantastic determamfidd, and in her fic is the eldest son of Dwalin and Orla Longaxe. He is the tops.
> 
> *Durin's mother, Bomfrís, is also NOT my OC. She belongs to Dets as well, and is one of the many daughters of Bombur and his wife, Alrís.
> 
> *It says in canon that the birth of Durin was prophesied during the Battle of the Five Armies, and that he would be the Dwarf to reclaim Moria for his race. The most interesting thing, though, is the fact that on the Durin Family tree Durin the VII is also called 'the last'. Gotta wonder on that.  
>    
> Thanks and everlasting hugs to the determamfidd, and the dwarrowscholar as well for letting me use their stuff. They rock.  
> 


	3. Proper Fathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -takes deep breath- DDDDDDDURIN'S DAYYYYYYYYYYYYY, brimming with loquacious little scamps, Khuzdul, and snarky dads. And, Dwarves. Lots of Dwarves and some pretty unusual hobbits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what to say. The kudos and the comments and the bookmarks left me with a sense of other-worldliness. It's a pretty awesome feeling, really. Heck, I even got a comment from _Det's herself! Eeeh!!!_ I wasn't lying when I said compliments make me write more. I feed off them. Literally. I'll screenshot myself gnawing the side of my laptop if you don't believe me.
> 
> But it really does mean a lot when you guys take the time to click that little heart. So thank you, users and guests alike. You're all wonderful.
> 
>  _Disfrutar!_ (Disfrutas? Mm, I never could get the hang of those conjugations).
> 
> -The Ever Humble and Honorable Miss Pop

  **"It is a wise father that knows his own child."**  
**-Billy Shakespeare**

* * *

 Durin had always been able to recall things he should not possibly have been able to. Memories that shifted through his mind like clouds on the horizon, at once both foreign, and so terribly real he'd often awoken in the dead of night from the horror of them. He'd had them since he'd been too young properly recall, but over time they had become strangely comforting--a strong, familiar mountain in the midst of a storm. 

 When he'd been taught his lessons on the history of the Longbeards, especially concerning the flight of Durin's folk from Moria, he'd wept for hours upon end. It'd been worse when he'd learned of Nain I, son of Durin VI, who had gone back to fight Durin's Bane and died in the attempt. You would've thought his own mother or father had been killed before his very eye' from the way he'd blubbered and cried. 

Many folks had begun to see him as soft-hearted because of it.  _A sad thing indeed_ , they would whisper,  _you'd think with a lad with a name like that should be tougher. How's a dwarf like that to get anything done?_  As Durin aged, he'd quickly learned to stiffen his upper lip, and ignore the niggling wisps of memory.

 But  the thought of what had occurred in the collapsed mine--what had become of Alvís-- had brought them out into the light once again. It felt utterly, horribly real. The scent of death still lingered in his nostrils, something he'd never thought about when he'd recalled those dwarves who were just names in dusty tomes to others. Only the memory of that sorrow made his heart twist with grief, like an old scar aching in the cold, but the guilt he felt over Alvís was more akin to a festering wound, promising only to worsen with time.

 Why had he been so foolish? Why had he gone and gotten yet another dwarf killed? 

 Time passed quickly in the infirmary, though it was far from painless. Durin learned that the rubble had broken a few of his ribs, fractured his collarbone (Gimrís reminded him constantly that it had been a mere hair's width from snapping his neck), bruised his left femur, given him a proper concussion, and a cut along the edge of his temple that would most definitely leave a scar.

 But the worst part of it was his left arm, yet it was the only part of him that didn't ache.

 His arm had been completely crushed when the mine had collapsed, the bones in it little more than dust and the muscles mush. It would heal, thanks to the help of Elvish medicines, one of the healer's assistants had explained, and it wouldn't need to be amputated, thank Mahal. But it would heal wrong, and though the feeling may be gone for a time, that didn't mean it would stay that way. The bones would be warped, she'd said, like poorly forged metal. With time and effort, he'd be able to move it some, if he were lucky. But he'd never be able to wield a weapon with it again, nor hold the smallest of quills with ease.

 The entire time, Durin could swear, he'd only been able to see the crushed remains of his friend. His pain was nothing compared to that.

 Any dwarf worth their beard wouldn't find solace in a debacle like this, and Durin was no different. It left him somber and moody, and he'd most certainly have wallowed in it for an eternity if it weren't for the others. As time passed, his sizeable amount of Uncles and Aunts and cousins had come around to cheer him up. His Uncle Barur had brought more pies than he thought possible to eat, and his Aunt Baris sang some old songs for him in that crystal voice of hers. Even his cousin Gara, who wasn't much older than him, had stopped by to show off her axes.

 But in those first few days when Alvís' death had left him shaken and mute, he'd preferred the company of the Captain above all else. Thorin had sat by his bed from dawn until dusk without saying so much as a word. His new-found chattiness from the first night was short-lived, which didn't bother either of them. Durin liked the company of a taciturn companion to one that that would offer pity as a salve and the Captain ,for all his gruffness, understood the need for that.

 Plus, where else could he read the books his friend in the South sent him in peace without every dwarfling trainee in the mountain snooping over his shoulder?

 It was one afternoon, about a week into his recovery, when the Captain broke his silent streak. He'd just received a new edition from his friend, 'proper literature'  he'd sarcastically said, and had it propped open on his knee as Durin sat staring up at the distant stone ceiling.

 "Mahal's bloody beard, Gimizh!" the captain cried suddenly, shutting  the small book with a loud  _crack!_  of its spine, his dark face a deep beet red. "I don't know why I read these," He snapped. "I should just burn them when they come in with the traders."

 A smirk tugs at the corner of Durin's mouth before he can remind himself that he's grieving.

 "He probably does it for the look on my face," the Captain continued with one eye gauging Durin's reaction. " Even if the bampot is halfway across Arda, I just know he's having a good laugh at my expense right now. Hmph. I should send him something embarrassing in exchange...Any ideas?"

 Durin thought about it, but just imagining the straight-laced Captain of the Royal Guard searching about for something embarrassing to send with the traders was enough to make his sides ache with laughter. He finally just shrugged, unable to come up with an answer and grinning like a fool.

 "How about a letter?" Durin said. "Something horrid...like Gimrís finding it!"

 Thorin grinned devilishly and waved the book about. "Aye! There's an idea, lad! He thinks I can never be as clever as him, nor as daring. Maybe something like..." His voice rose three octaves higher. _"Dear Gimizh, this is your Mother and I cannot believe what I've just read-"_

 "What have I read exactly?" A voice asks, startling them both. In a flash, the book is gone from Thorin's hand and in the grip of Erebor's highest ranking Healer.

 The captain yelped. "I was just--"

 Gimrís flipped to a random page before Thorin could stop her. "Tch, Wee Thorin..." She chastised.

 As far as Durin knew, Gimrís was the only one that called the Captain that ridiculous nickname. Thorin towered over most of the population of Erebor. Yet it was well worth it to see the towering dwarf blanch at the Dwarrowdam, dark eyes wide.

"Now, what would Dwalin say if he saw you reading this, hm? Near our young prince of all things, " she asked flatly, her mouth quirking just a bit. "Or your 'amad?"

"She wouldn't be pleased, me thinks," Durin added, propping an elbow on his knees and chuckling at the captain's petrified look. "Not in the slightest."

 "I-I, er..." Thorin stammered, and couldn't seem to meet the Dwarrowdam's gaze. "Lady Gimrís, please don't tell her."

The squeaky request broke Durin's resolve, and he doubled over with laughter. Gimrís smiled brightly at him, then tossed the book back to Thorin who quickly tucked it beneath his jerkin.

"Relax, lad! I know it's from my boy, " she chuckled, winking at them both. "How about you let me send it out with a proper note back to him? Maybe then he'll will remember to write his mother once in a while."

Durin is still tittering foolishly as the Captain nods in hasty agreement. As the fiery-haired dwarrowdam sauntered away the Captain gave Durin a deep, familiar scowl.

"Back to teasing me already?" Thorin harrumphed. "Aye, you'll be out of here in a week. Mark my words."

 

~*~

Captain Thorin certainly was the optimist. It was well past a week before Durin was allowed from his bed, and even longer than that before he was given the privilege of walking about the corridors of Erebor once again. It was late into cold season, the morning of Durin's Day no less, before he was finally allowed to leave the healer's meticulous care to attend --of all things-- a  _meeting_. It certainly wasn't the first place he'd wanted to go, but it was better than stewing in the healer's care a minute longer.

 When his mother had shown up to walk with him, she'd looked exhausted. Her ginger hair was in a mussed, half-up braid that she only ever wore when she went to the rookery.

Durin smiled as she stepped up to him, sleeves rolled up and large hands covered in hay and claw marks. She gave him the same quirk of the lips.

He was always being told how much they looked alike in their expressions, though his 'amad often teased him that her nose was not near as big as his, nor her eyes as blue or her neck as thick.

"Durin, "she said, and hugged him close."Finally allowed your freedom again I see."

 He returned it with his good arm, hoping that none of the healers were nearby to see him blush as his 'amad began to braid his sparse beard for him.

 "Where's 'adad?" He asked when she'd finished and they'd left, setting off down the corridor. Dwarves bustled past them in waves, many carrying decorations and such for the later celebration. He continued to look about for the familiar stern countenance of the king, but couldn't find it. Durin was half convinced that his father didn't have the heart to see his only son swathed in bandages again, but his mother was quick to snuff that thought out.

 "On his way the meeting as well, inúdoy. You know that,'" she told him. "Bursi insisted upon it. I've never seen a dwarf so fussy about timetables, and I believe the quake still has him shaking in his boots."

 Durin nodded, not paying much attention to his mother's words. His mind was already wandering back to the dark, stuffy tunnel, Alvís telling him to run ahead and he doesn't want to, he doesn't want to, he-

 "Trouble about, then?" He asked quickly, and pulled at a frayed bandage edge to still his nervous fingers. His mother was slow to answer, looking him over before continuing.

"The areas that were destroyed in the cave-in are still being dug out. It's taking damned longer than I thought it would to clear all the rubble," His mother's nostrils flared in irritation."Not to mention all the preparation for Durin's Day isn't helping."

 "Oh joy."

 The queen squinted at him quizzically, and she was quick in pulling him into an out of the way alcove, placing a comforting forehead against his.

 "Zûr zu? You can talk to me, you know." She murmured.

  "I'm fine, 'amad,"Durin lied, and shrugged his shoulders. "My...arm just aches."

 The queen puckered her lips at him, moving a stray strand of hair from his head. "Nothing else?"

 "I..."he looks away. "It's nothing."

 Skeptically, she peered at him. "Sometimes I regret how much you turned out like me," she said with a heavy sigh. "Brash and stubborn ‘til  you won't talk to no one. You have a good head on your shoulders, Durin, but you're far too hard on yourself. Just take some time to calm yourself, and heal. Heal, and breathe. Izzûgh?"

"Sugùl ma,"Durin agreed, leaning into the comforting touch. Bomfrís smiled at him, pulling lightly on the ginger braid at his temple.

 "Come, then. Your father won't wait forever to start, however patient he likes to think he is."

 They leave the quiet of the alcove and return to the bustle of the main corridor. Durin meets any curious gaze directed at him with one of his own.Better to face it head on. Most are sympathetic, but some seem like sneers. His 'amad noticed where his roaming eyes went, and scoffed.

 "I still remember all the nasty looks I got after I declared that I wanted to fight with a bow," she said, leading him with a hand on his shoulder. "I actually had people ask if I didn't know how to use a sword! Pft. I was taught by Lady Mizim herself, and showed all of them." She continued smugly.

 Durin tries to clench the muscles of his hand, but they remain rigid. "I hope I can as well."

 "You will." She looked ahead and gripped his shoulder. "Well. Look who decided to wait up after all." Durin looked up and smiled just a bit, too.

 His father's dark head had more grey in it than black nowadays, while his beard was nearly all white save for small patches of rust, but the old dwarf was as sturdy as an ox. He refused to be bent by age, and the royal crown and mantle only made him look more distinguished.

As he strode proudly down the corridor toward them, Durin couldn't help but straighten a little. He silently cursed his stiff arm that refused to move from its odd angle at his side. The king paused as he neared them both, his eyes surprised by what they saw outside the dark of the infirmary. The look passes just as quickly as it appears though, and is replaced by a broad smile as he places his forehead against Durin's.

 "Ach, lad, up and about again already," He said, cracking their skulls together, then grinning sheepishly like a child who's been too rough with a delicate toy. "How d'you feel, m'boy?"

 "It hurts, but I'll manage." Durin offered up a smile as he rubbed his head. "Not as painful as your face is, I'm afraid."

 His father guffawed. "Aye, your sense of humor seems to have returned quick enough," he said, pulling away to smile at his wife. She looked up at him skeptically, a light eyebrow raised. He laced his fingers through her hair.

"And you," he said playfully. "I like your hair. Very...unconventional."

"Shut up, dear," She replied with a wry chuckle. "And try not to take too long. It's the first day in too long that I'll have both of my boys at the table, and I want to have a decent breakfast together before the actual celebration starts."

 The Stonehelm smiled, his blue eyes brightening.

"Aye, ma'am. Right away, ma'am."

"You're not coming?" Durin asked as she turned to go.

"Unfortunately no," His mother sighed. "Believe me, I would do anything to join the riveting meeting that's about to take place, but I'm far too busy."

The Stonehelm rolled his eyes, and ushered his son to follow him.

 _Lucky,_  Durin thinks.

 He follows at his father's side into the great hall, where the throne carved sits surrounded by the blues and silver of Durin's line. They stride past it, and into a more modest room to the side, where a long table stands in the center.

The Stonehelm sighed as he takes his seat. "It'll be good to see you in a helm again, inúdoy. A prince shouldn't wear a circlet of bandages."

 Durin snorted at that as he sat at the left hand of his father. Others began to trickle in as they waited, until each of the thirteen seats were filled.

He waves back to Thorin, who offers him a polite nod back, and enters with his parents: the severe-looking General Orla Longaxe of the Orocarni in full battle gear from training, and his father, General Dwalin, who was by far the oldest Dwarrow Durin knew of, his hair white as snowfall. Though he was hale and hearty enough, he still leaned on his eldest son's shoulder as he sat down with a grunt. Durin often wondered how two of the most serious Dwarves ever to be born had had a son like the Captain- one of life's great mysteries, he supposed.

When Gimrís entered, she immediately stepped up to ask how he felt.

"Perfectly fine," Durin answered quickly. The dwarrowdam gave him a quick once-over with her eyes before nodding and taking her seat across from the Captain and his parents.

When everyone had settled, the Stonehelm stood up.

"Baknd ghelekh, everyone. It's time we began, " he stated. "What do you have to report, Bursi?"

 The anxious seneschal trembled as he rose from his seat and bowed, his pale and pointed beard brushing the tabletop. "Umlhakh," he began happily "I'm delighted t-to report that preparations for the new year have gone smooth-smoothly. The Biz-bizarûnh merchants suh-such-say this Durin's Day has attracted one of the-the biggest crowds they've ever--"

"Bursi," the king repeated patiently. "I know more than enough about our closest neighbors. What of the Dwarves in other mountains?"

Bursi bit his lip nervously. "A-a-a-apologies, sire. "He stuttered. "Er...E-Ered Luin had an early winter this year and, um, the Iron Hills report n-no change with the E-e-easterlings-"

 "Any news from the Orocarni?" The king turned toward Captain Thorin's mother, leaving the seneschal bleating like a sheep.

The old warrioress answered succinctly, her sentences bitten short at the ends. "Nothing except the usual drivel. The Easterlings continue to be a nuisance, but it's nothing they can't handle. As for the south--"

Gimrís's grey-tinged head perked up at that. Any news from the south always succeeded in waking her up in the oft dull meetings. "What happens there?" she asked

Bursi raised a hand. "I-I think I can answer that, Lady Gimrís." His oddly colored eyes grew wide from the dark stare that Orla gave him. Bursi gulped. "I-if Lady Orla permits it, of course." Durin grimaced at the piercing stare, even if it wasn't directed at him. He noticed both the Captain and the General Dwalin had their eyes trained on the shaky seneschal as well.

"Go on." His father nodded, the Raven Crown atop his head shifting slightly from the quirk of his brow.

The seneschal cleared his throat. "Talk of strange folk about--"

 "Strange folk?"

 "Aye, Men spouting nonsense about the-the return of darkness, and the end of the world. They tell anyone they can that they'll be saved if they join their cause. They're thought to be originating somewhere in Harad, but no-one is sure. K-King Elessar is over encumbered with the Khandish and political turmoil within the Umbarian government to be of much help in deal with them."

"Do they pose a threat to our colony in our colony in Ered Nimrais?" The king asked.

"N-no, sire, none at-at t'all. They are nothing more than radicals, and buh-besides that the cultists are situated closer toward the border of Harondor and Gondor, but some have been seen trying to get into the traitor wizard's tower in Fangorn."

 The king's eyes narrow darkly. "Lord Legolas kept them out?"

 "Aye."

 The Stonehelm sat back, "Very well. Lord Gimli will keep us updated, I'm sure, as will the elf. If there is anything else concerning these...'strange folk', then I expect to be told immediately."

 "Of course, sire!" bleats Bursi before taking his seat again

 At this point his father glanced down at Durin seated at his side, the first time he has in the entire meeting. It's fleeting though, but his gaze softened and Durin saw his father in the look: unsure, and worried. Durin offered a small smile, and nodded in encouragement.

 "What of the cave-in?" The King asked, as each pair of eyes in the room landed on Durin. " What progress have we made on the repairs of the lower tunnels?"

 A Dwarrowdam with steel-gray hair and a deep scar on her cheek- the head of the Miner's Guild- answered in a heavy voice.

 "Milord. My miners are workin' around the clock to clear the rubble, " she said matter-of-factly. "It's taken longer than we first thought. Old areas, old stone, and half those tunnels haven't been used for a terribly long time."

 "And the catacombs?" His father asked. "I would hope the tombs of my forebears remain unscathed."

 "We've barely scratched the surface there, milord, " she said staunchly. " Though we're sure no permanent damage has been done to the sepulchers, we won't know for sure the extent of anythin' til we break through the last of the rubble. I fear for the integrity of the older tombs, though," her eyes slipped surreptitiously to Durin, and the prince couldn't let himself meet them. "There was not much thought towards finesse whilst we dug those lads out--"

 "I'm sure there wasn't," The king cut in, voice steel. Durin gulped at the sharpness of it. "Which area worries you ?"

 The miner stiffened her upper lip and nodded, dropping the subject immediately. "We've yet to reach the worst area safely yet. It's been much too treacherous," she replied succinctly."Particularly...particularly where Lord Thorin Oakenshield was laid to rest. I doubt much remains."

 Durin noticed the way old Dwalin's scowl had deepened with the miner's words, and the aged dwarrow growled into his beard with a thick, worn voice: "Birashagimi, gamil bâhûn..." He watched Orla place a hand upon her husband's shoulder, and old Dwalin quickly placing his over it.

Beside the two, the Captain had a scowl similar to his father's stretched across his face, but he remained as impassive and immovable as a statue. Durin felt a thick weight settle in the pit of his stomach.

 "That's an ill omen if ever there was one," The Stonehelm frowned at the tabletop. "Do you have any inkling how long it will take to get through it all?"

 "We should know by tomorrow, my king," The miner thumped her forearm with the words. " Perhaps even sooner. My miners plan to work throughout the day, an' tonight as well."

 "And what of Durin's Day?" The king asked. "I cannot request you or your miners to work through such a time, when it should be spent with your kin."

"My workers and I cannot stand idly by and celebrate when the remains of a hero are dishonored in such a way," She answered back respectfully. "We are proud to do this."

"Aye?" Durin's father inclined his head to her. "Then you have my respect. Inform me when you are done and then we can find a proper place for our honored dead to rest once again." With that, he turned to the rest of the room. "Is there anything else to report?"

 No one answered.

"Then it's time to end this and continue with our mornings. I hope you all enjoy the celebrations."

A series of voices answered him the same, and the room quickly emptied of people. When the last one had left, Durin's father inhaled and lets his demeanor wane a bit as he slumped into his seat.

Durin looked at him hopefully. "You know, 'adad, it seems more fitting to help the miners than greet a bunch of visitors. "

"Aye, lad, "He chuckled dryly. "I feel the same, but--"

Durin nodded lightheartedly, "'But relations with folk outside of the Mountain are just as important as those within', right?"

His father gave a wane little smile, "I was gonna say 'and I don't know the first thing about the finer points of mining," he said. "But that works just as well."

 "Didn't you crawl into the rubble of a collapsed tunnel during the War of the Ring?" Durin pointed out.

 The king smiled. "I did, and it was completely reckless of me."

 "Reckless and brave," Durin added softly. "You saved many people that night, because you were brave enough to crawl into the dark."

 "And there were many I didn't save." replied the king, his eyes clouding over slightly. "Aye...But that doesn't mean I know how to dig myself out safely!" He slapped a hand on Durin's shoulder, rubbing small circles into it that the prince couldn't feel. Durin didn't have the heart to remind him.

 "I would feel better if I could be of help," Durin said. "I want to help fix this."

 "You can help by allowing your body to mend, lad," his father answered, and stood. "But enough with such dark thoughts and words! We'd best be getting back to your mother, or neither of us will hear the end of it."

 

~*~

 The wind was blistering cold as they made their way over the last hill of the rocky road, tearing through the thin stuff of his cloak to make Tobias tremble like some cornered little rabbit.

 "Here you go, Daddy." From inside the modest waggon, nothing more than canvas pulled over a cart, a dainty little hand  popped out holding a scarf. A face appears quickly after, red from the cold but smiling brightly up at him. Tobias couldn't help but return the gesture.

 "Thank you my dear," He took the burgundy colored material and wrapped it around his neck. It smelled of flour and the dusty insides of an unused room in a hobbit hole. "How was your nap?"

 "Bumpy," she groused."I miss my bed back home."

 "I miss mine too." Unbidden, old memories of the home they'd left behind crept through his mind. Old shelves full of books, pictures hanging on the walls, his nice, warm chair by the fire...

 He grew so homesick he scarcely heard a word his daughter said until she was shaking his shoulder emphatically.

"--Daddy!"

 "Hm? What, Aster...what?"

 Aster's little face scrunched up at him in irritation. "I asked 'are we there yet'?"

 Tobias grinned. "Take a look for yourself," he said, gesturing with his nub of a chin towards the end of the road. Just past the outcropping of grey stone, large domes, rooftops of red tile, and spires of golden-brown stone taller than any of the rolling hills back in Shire pierce the sky like lances, and all about them kites fly about like birds.

 "Whoa," murmured Aster, green eyes alight with wonder.

 "Whoa indeed."

 "It's a lot bigger than Michel Delving," she noted happily. "Like great big stone trees!"

 Tobias chuckled and clucked at his pony as they rounded the last  bend in the path. The road became steeper here, leading down towards the only open gate. All about them were all sorts of other travelers, some on foot, others on horseback, some even with waggons like themselves. Unfortunately, there were no other hobbits as far as he could see. There never were outside of the Shire, he thought somberly.

 "What're those?" Aster asked curiously, pointing off in the distance behind the gold-brown towers of Dale, to where twin sentinels of stone stood guard before two great doors.

 "That," answered her father as he adjusted his spectacles and squinted, "Is... Erebor, I believe. Home of the Longbeard Dwarves."

 "Like in the stories?" she oohed elatedly.

 "I should think so."

 "D'ya think we can visit it?" she asked suddenly, hopping up to peer even closer. The seat of the cart creaked dangerously. "I've always wanted to meet a dwarf!"

 "You've met plenty of dwarves, dear," he replied, pulling her down to sit beside him before she took a tumble. Aster slumped in the seat beside him, crossing her arms petulantly.

 "They were from the Blue Mountains, though!" she said. "I want ta see a dwarf from Erebor."

 "There isn't much of a difference. It's like saying hobbits in the Shire are different from ones in Bree."

 "I still wanna go," she pestered. "Pretty please, Daddy?"

 "They don't let outsiders in often." he offered as an answer, pulling at the reins to calm their pony.

 "How come?"

 Tobias bit the inside of his lip."Because Dwarves like their privacy."

 "Why?"

 "Same reasons we hobbits do, because they enjoy their secrets," He hoped the mystery of it would put an end to her questions.

 She continued undeterred. "Like what? What sorta secrets?"

 "Hm...like their secret language I suppose."

 "Secret language?" her mouth opened into a perfect 'o' and Tobias realized his mistake too late. "A secret code? I wanna know it! Wha's it called?"

 He thought of the name scrawled in an old book, still on the shelf gathering dust in his study. "Khuzdul."

 She rolled the strange word about in her mouth like a new piece of candy. "Kooz-dool? Khooz-dool..."

 Wearily, he smoothed back her unruly blonde curls. "I'm sure they'll adore an eager little student like you,"

 Aster furrowed her thin blonde brows up at him."How am I s'posed to learn it if we can't go in their city, though?"

"There will be plenty of Dwarves in Dale."

 Aster smiled eagerly. "Good."

Finally, she settled into the seat beside him, her legs too short to even reach the footrest. For a few solid minutes (more than he thought possible, really) she remained utterly silent, taking in all the strange sounds and sights about her. Tobias had been relentless in making her stay in the waggon as they'd traveled through the Misty Mountains and the Greenwood after that. Though the New Forest Road was more than well protected by Men, Dwarves, and even Elves, Tobias hadn't allowed her to step one furry foot into the tree-line. She'd given him the silent treatment for that: the worst punishment anyone could possibly give, as she saw it.

But, as it had in the forest, her silence didn't last long.

"D'ya really think Mummy will be here?" Aster asked, her voice light and unsure. " Will she recognize us?"

The small question made Tobias' stomach take a sudden turn. His hands tightened on the reins.

"I hope so."

"Me too," she whispered quietly.

 As they neared the city proper, the crowd became a throng then a stream then a wave of passerby that brought them nearly to a standstill. Tobias reached out to calm his short Shire pony while at the same time trying to calm his excitable little daughter.

 "So many people!"

 "Stay in the waggon," he told her sternly, gasping when Pretty-Pony waved her head particularly hard.

The walls of Dale are nearly as tall as the buildings themselves, made of strong, solid stone,  and the gates were just as well forged, with great steel bars of dwarvish forging, and guards high above on the battlements, and down below as well to mind the flow of traffic. The sight of so many of them hadTobias on edge when they finally reached the checkpoint, but Aster was positively giddy with the eagerness that only small children can handle and didn't seem to notice.

 "Look at all the Big Folk, Daddy! Look! Look!" she said as they were ushered through by a guard with frost on his brows. Aster's small fingers go out to brush it away before Tobias can stop her, and for a moment he fears the startled look on the Man's face will twist to anger. But he only smiles and ruffles Aster's bramble of blonde hair with a gloved hand. He gave one curious glance at her large, furred feet, yet thankfully didn't say a word.

 Tobias grinned bashfully at the Man, then continued down the lane. The dirt road quickly turned to stone that clicked with each clop of their pony's hooves, and navigating through the cobbled avenues of Dale soon becomes sport for them both. Despite the cold, plants of all sorts aligned the street, some hanging from window boxes in small potted jars, others clinging to the stonework like hands. Lanterns dangled from strings hung from rooftop to rooftop, just barely beginning to be lit, and as they moved deeper into the heart of the city other travelers turned from the road to set up shop on street corners. All sorts of wares could be heard shouted over their heads, and tantalizing smells wafted through the air, beggaring investigation . Children at play- Dwarvish and Man- whooped and ran about beneath the legs of adults as they chased one another, Race lost in the haze of the moment. Tobias glanced at Aster as she watched the other children, her large eyes strangely somber.

 Part of him wished she would ask to join them, but the last thing he needed was to lose her in a city he's never been in before. Besides, they hadn't come here just for celebration.

As the sun just barely began to tinge the distant bows of the Greenwood red, Tobias spots the seediest, dingiest inn he can find and stops the waggon a street or so away. He turns in his seat.

"I'll only be a minute," He told Aster. "Mind the pony, please, and don't go investigating anything until I get back." She nods, not even looking up as he jumps from the waggon seat and makes his way towards the dark insides of the building.

  _Solidago loves the dangerous places best--seeks them out like a moth to a flame._ It's the most obvious place to start, he thinks.

Tobias pushed open the doors, and is immediately hit with the thick, pleasant fug of a bustling inn. Even if the place is poorly lit, he can tell that it is absolutely packed. Leery-eyed folk sit at the tables picking their teeth with daggers, mirth and merriment fill the air as loudly as it does outside. Men sit around mostly, but here and there are tables filled with bearded Dwarves ( and was that a Wood-elf in the corner?) talking eagerly amongst themselves. Tobias stopped to rub the glass in his spectacles clear before adventuring further in.

He passed a dwarf tossing axes in the air in a flurry of movement that looked graceful enough to be a dance. The dwarf in question is humming a song as they spin the weapons nearly to the ceiling, and the crowd huddled around cheers them on happily when they did a particularly well-timed kick.

At the bar in the back of the tavern, a grumpy-looking Man stood cleaning a mug with a foul-looking cloth. He had one eye that glinted in the bad lighting, and his scowl only deepened when Tobias took a seat on the stool in front of him.

 "Hullo," Tobias greeted with a smile.

 "...'ello," answered the barkeep as he  looked him over with a withering eye. "What'll ya be havin'?"

 "Information," Tobias had been over this sp many times in the past few months. More than he cares to remember, but he still feels a tad silly talking like that. He fishes out a few gold pieces from his pocket before taking out the locket with her portrait, and slides both across the wooden counter to the Man. The barkeep takes the gold first (they always do) and stuffs it in his greasy apron pocket, then lifts the small portrait close his face. Tobias always hates this part: Watching as these strangers scrutinize Solidago. He looked away as the Man does, surveying the growing crowd in the fuggy room and listening to what conversations he can.

 The large dwarf with the axes had already retired from their show, glinting with sweat as they're slapped playfully on the shoulder by their companions.

 "Durin's Day goin' t'be grand this year," said one. "Every lord and lady that sees ya will be thrown off their seats!"

 The dancing dwarf took a swig of ale, "Aye," they reply, wiping a meaty forearm across their generous chin. "I jus' hope it helps Durin, too."

 "Cheers to that. Poor lad." the companion sighed before raising his glass. "To Prince Durin! May he be well and whole afore the night is through!"

 "Or at least grow a pair and get over it!" Another guffawed as the others groaned, but don't argue.

 The dancing dwarf face reddened.

 "Ach, dunnae be like that!" they growled darkly. "He's my cousin, you bastard, and both of our prince. I'll make ya show some respect!"

 "Calm down, Gara!" the insulting one replied hastily. "We were kiddin', right? Now c'mon, enough with dark words. Cheers!"

 It's as the group is slamming their tankards against each other that Tobias is pulled away from his eavesdropping by a hand snapping in his face.

 How _rude_.

 "Well?"

 The Man hands him back the picture, then-- to Tobias's surprise--the gold as well.

 "Aye, I've seen 'er."

 Tobias' heart fluttered for a moment, and he can imagine Solidago's hand in his, her soft lips and bright smile. He could see her meeting Aster and being so, so proud.

But the barkeep wants to continue and leaned in close, but not before glancing about him with his one good eye. His breath is cloying and hot, and Tobias has to fight the urge to pull away. "An' she's bad news, lad." he warned. "Seems to rub folk the wrong way. Brought nothin' but trouble wit' her, and lucky fer us she took it away too."

 Tobias deflated. "So she isn't here?"

 The Man shook his head. "Not fer quite some time. She lef' about the same time that dwarf prince got hurt. You'd 'ave thought she'd had a hand in it herself, the way she fled like there were wargs nippin' at her ankles. "

 He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice, but failed. "That sounds like her." _Leaving, always leaving_.

 The barkeep's brow puckered at him. "She someone important to ya?"

 "You could say that," Tobias replied.

 The barkeep crossed his burly arms. "You keep company like tha', and a man has to wonder wha' kind of character you 'ave."

 He chose to ignore that. "Would you happen to know where she may have been heading?" he asked, and looked up hopefully.

 The barkeep seemed about to answer, then stopped himself.

 "No, lad. Apologies."

Tobias knew the man was hiding something, but what could he do? Cause a ruckus and give his kind an even worse name than Solidago already undoubtedly had? He began to feel unbearably tired all of the sudden, and wanted only to go back to the waggon and curl up to sleep. He thanked the man, and was about to leave when a loud shout pierced the room.

 "--I'm sorry, mister!"

 "Oi, you little brat! " a deeper voice bellowed. "Where do ya think you're off to?!"

 A tiny whimper can be heard in the rapidly silencing pub.

 "Well, ya little shite?"

 A familiar voice answered him, defiant yet hushed.

 "Leggo! Let me go right now!"

 "Wha' ? Little bloody--"

 Before she can answer, Tobias is in-between the two. The Man is big and brutish, glaring angrily at Aster with his hand wrapped around her thin arm. A drink is dribbling down his shirt front, no doubt spilt there when Aster decided to barge in, but he seemed more than drunk enough already from the ruddy look of his face.

"Now calm down! I'm sure it was-." Tobias began.

"You the little brat's Da', then?" growled the man fiercely. "I'll beat the living shite out of you, then that little  _brat_ will see what accidents cause."

 "Don't--" A fist connected with his jaw, and Tobias fell back as his spectacles flew from his face.

 "Leave my Daddy alone, you big stupid bully!" Aster shouted, and Tobias can feel his heart flutter to a stop as the Man picks her up as easily as a rucksack. She claws at  his face helplessly, succeeding in drawing blood from his cheek.

There's no other way. Tobias reached for the weapon held at his side. Bugger it all, e hadn't _wanted_ to create a scene...

 "Agh!" There was a malicious gleam in the foul Man's eyes, "THAT BLOODY HURT!!" he howled "I'LL KILL YA, YOU MISERABLE LITTLE BRAT!! "He pulled her away from him as if to throw her, when a robust form put a thick arm between them.

 Tobias quickly sheathed his dagger.

 "Tha's enough from ya, Burt, " The one-eyed barkeep said, a heavy cleaver in his hand. "It was just a wee mistake. Put the girl down."

 The man named Burt sneered. "Wha'? Are ya gonna throw me out, Giles? I'd like to see ya bloody try."

 As Burt turned from the barkeep, a spinning object flashed by him. It imbedded itself in the wall beside his head, and Burt turned to stare wide-eyed at the person who threw it.

 "You heard 'im. Put the lass down," The dancing dwarf already had a second axe in their hand, and their eyes bored into Burt's. Around them, the other dwarves were tensed as if preparing for an all-out war, " Before I spill more than just yer ale."

 Burt glanced from them, to the barkeep, to Tobias before settling on the squirming Faunt in his hands. With a look of pure fury, he dropped her to the ground.

"You'll bloody regret this, the whole lot o' ya! But especially _you_ , halfling," he said, and stalked from the inn.

 "An' stay out!" Giles bellowed at his retreating form.

 "Daddy? Daddy! Are you okay?" Aster sniveled as she stumbled toward him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

 "He's alright, lass," Gara said, walking over with a small object-- too small to be an axe-- in their hand. Tobias thinks they must be his spectacles, though everything seems a bloody haze at the moment as the dwarf pulls him to his feet.

 Tobias doesn't realize he's been holding his breath.

"Thank you," He finally manages out.

"Weren't nothin', Master Halfling. Just try not to take on blokes bigger'n you," they guffawed. "Unless you decide to actually use that pig poker at your hip!" His spectacles were placed on his face. Thankfully, the glass wasn't broken.

Aster seemed too shaken to ask the kind dwarf about Khuzdul, but she does watch curiously as the dwarf pulls their throwing axe from the wall and pushes it into a loop in their belt before leaving.

 As the dull whir of noise resumes in the pub and the pair of hobbits becomes unnoticeable once again, Tobias turns to the barkeep that had been hovering over them like a cloud.

"Giles, was it?" Tobias asked. "I owe you and those dwarves a debt, sir. You saved my daughter and I from what would have undoubtedly been an awful scuffle."

The Man waved away his comment.

"I dunnae allow any kind of violence in this establishment. Besides, I couldn't allow such a darling lil lass to be bothered like tha'," He smirked down at Aster (the first smile the gruff barkeep has shown. She tended to have that effect) as she retreated behind her father and peaked over his elbow.

"Such a pretty wee thing should'nae be in places like this." he remarked softly.

 Aster simply stared him down with those big, unblinking eyes of hers. She mumbled out a small "thank you" before falling into silence.

 "It ain't no problem," continued Giles. " I've seen Burt start things simply for staring at him wrong. He's a drunken cur, but harmless... Say, does she like apples?"

 Tobias smiled, though his face ached from it. "Loves them."

 "I have some in the back for a brave girl like her. Ask Merta and she'll show ya, dearie. Off with ya now."

 Aster beamed, and darted off without a word.

 Bartender Giles' frown returned as she speeds away, and he blinked down at Tobias.

 "Quiet waif, isn't she?"

 Tobias snorted skeptically. "A natural-born mute."

 "..So, that woman you were lookin' for- she's your wife?"

 "Something like that," he replied somberly. "She's the girl's mother."

 The Man seemed to mull that over. "Darling girl you have there. Fearless if I've ever seen it."

 "She's my brave little treasure," replied Tobias with a proud smile. "Though she should listen to her father a bit more often."

 Giles smiled crookedly. "A girl deserves her Mum," he continued, "She was making her way to Gondor, last I heard. The capital city most like."

 Hope flutterd about in his chest. "Thank you, Master Giles." Tobias reached into his pocket for the gold that had been returned. "This is the least I can give-"

 "Ain't no concern o' mine. Just keep that wee lass safe an' we'll consider it even. Have a good day, Master-?"

 "Tobias Took of the Shire, at your service."

 "A good day to ya then, Master Tobias."

 Tobias grasped the large hand he was offered, the palm sweaty and warm. "You as well, sir."

 "An' Master Tobias?" The Man called out to him as he turned to leave. "Careful who you let see that girl o' yours. Your wife didnae make many friends around 'ere."

 "I will, " He offered one last half smile. "Good afternoon."

 

 

 Tobias took a deep breath as he existed the inn, and leaned against the wall as more people bustled in and out. It's nearly dark outside, a bright yellow moon drifting listlessly through the sky, and all the hanging lanterns are lit. He hadn't realized he'd become so exhausted, and his face still smarts from the thwack he'd been given. It'd never been this way when he'd traveled with Solidago...

 Aster is led out a few moments later by a buxom young woman who seemed utterly smitten with her. She gives the girl an extra apple before returning inside, which Aster immediately stuffs into the deep pocket of her dress before settling beside him.

 "It isn't good when you disobey your father," he scolded her. "Especially when it means leaving the pony unattended. 

"Pretty-Pony is fine! " Aster replied hotly., then her high voice wilted with sadness. "You were takin' so long, an-and I thought somethin' must 'a happened..."

 He winked at her, flicking her nose with his thumb. "It's the past. Just respect my wishes next time, hm?"

 She smiled and his shoulders relaxed. For the moment, at least.

 "Ish Mubby here?" she asked him expectantly through a bite of apple.

 "No, my little bloom," answered Tobias with a sigh. "She's in Gondor."

She swallowed, licking her fingers. "Gondor? That's...south right?"

 Tobias smiled tiredly. " _Very_  south."

 His little Aster nods her curly head slowly, her brow puckered. Tobias knew his daughter better than each finger and the back of his hand.

"A question unasked is--" he quoted.

 "--is an answer passed. I know, Daddy." Oh, but she was frightfully bright for one so young. It terrified him how much like her mother she was turning out to be. She looked up at him with her wide, clear eyes. "I wish I'd asked that nice dwarf about Kooz..koozdool."

"Perhaps we'll see them again," Tobias answered as he stood with a grunt. Aster still sat, pulling at her fingers.

"There's something else isn't there, my little bloom?" he asked, hefting her up in his arms and heading back toward the waggon. She fiddled with the brass buttons of his shirtfront, not looking up at him.

"Aster."

"Can we stay for the fireworks?" she asked suddenly. "I heard all the other kids  talkin' about them. It's s'posed to be a new year tomorrow," she snickered behind her sleeve. "I know it's not for months an' months an' months, but here it's different. They're in the future I s'pose. They even said there'll be sweets an' toy stands an' even a Prince, Daddy! I've never seen a Prince before. So...can we stay, even if Mummy isn't here?"

Tobias looked sadly at his small daughter, her young face alight with excitement. A proper father would agree completely when faced with a look like that. He'd buy a kite for his daughter to fly about and some sugar sticks to munch on as they watched fireworks burst in the night sky. A proper father would want to make sure she was happy and safe, not being dragged halfway across the world on fool's errand for a woman she'd never even met.

He stroked her hair. "You...know we can't, my little bloom."

The excitement and smile fade from her face, and he almost-- _almost_ \-- gives in and agrees. Almost. But deep down he knows he can't. Not yet.

"Tell you what, little bloom?" He said, in hopes of making it up to her. "I'll get you some sugar sticks for the road. How does that sound?"

She shrugged her petite shoulders. So small even for a hobbit child. It had to be because they'd done away with second breakfast on the road. Too little to spare.

He found himself breaking. Would Solidago spare him one day?

"Alright. We can stay." he finally agreed.

She beamed and hugged.

"Thank you, Daddy. Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"But only for today!" he repeated as he returned the hug. "An' I expect no complaint when we're up bright and early in the morn."

 Aster beamed brightly. "Not a one!" she agreed.

 If Solidago had ever taken the chance to learn her daughter's face, she would. Learned what it felt like to have those eyes look at you with all the joy in the world.

 One night, he told himself as she scampered off ahead of him, one night would not hurt them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Khuzdul Translations**_  
>  - _inúdoy_ =son  
> - _'amad_ =mother  
> - _'adad_ =father  
> - _izzûgh_ =yes  
> - _dwarrow_ =dwarf  
> - _Birashagimi, gamil bâhûn_ =I'm sorry, old friend.  
> - _umlhakh_ =your majesty  
> - _Zûr zu?_ =How are you?  
> - _Sugùl ma_ =Sure  
> - _Baknd ghelekh_ =Good morning
> 
>  **Other Notes...**  
>  *Gimris and Bomfris are NOT my OC. They are from the mind of one amazing fic writer, determamfidd, and I just borrow 'em. Gimris is the younger sister of Gimli, wife of Bofur, and mother of Gimizh. In this fic, she is also head healer of Erebor, as well as a presiding councilmember for the King-Beneath-the-Mountain (her father was it before her). Bomfris, on the other hand, is one of the many daughters of Bombur. They are both mega-cool dwarrowdams, and I'm lucky to get to use them.
> 
> *Queen Brenna: I really wanted to use Brand II in this, I really did. But considering this starts in FO 77 (3099, or SR 1499 if you enjoy the immense,hernia-inducing thing that is Shire Reckoning) chances are he is gone. So here's Brenna, his daughter and current Queen Regnent of Dale. Her son is named Bern.
> 
> *Ered Nimrais: The White Mountains. This range lies between Rohan and Gondor, and the dwarf colony of Aglarond (led by Gimli Elf-Friend) is situated there.
> 
> *In case none of you knew, Dwalin is old as dirt. When this story takes place, he is 326 years old. Something to keep in mind, Dwarves only live to 300 (usually). So, yes, old as dirt. Older than dirt, even. I bet the dead peanut gallery has a betting pool going... Anyway!  
> *As for why the Men of Dale would celebrate something like Durin's Day, think of it like... cultural diffusion. They live so close to each other; work alongside one another; and Durin's Day is basically the 'new year' (end of fall to the beginning of winter) which is something everyone would celebrate. It's a writerly choice, though dwarves are notorious for hiding everything having to do with culture from the prying eyes of curious races.
> 
>  As ever, all the cookies and fond hugs to the ubiquitous Dwarrowscholar and delightful Determamfidd, for making this fic of a fic possible. They rock. No go, readers, and read the amazeballs Sansukh, then check out all the dictionaries of the dwarrowscholar.  
> 


	4. Scars and Fresh Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaack.
> 
> And I bring with me some fresh, familiar faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have risen from the depths of noBeta Hell to bring you this fic update. See, not dead yet! Haha! Sorry for the long, loooonnng, looooonnnnnhhhhhhgggggg wait . I'd explain it here, but that would take way too long, so here's the [Tumble](poplitealqueen.tumblr.com). Plenty of explanation there.
> 
> Hope you like it. Enjoy~  
> -poplitealqueen (formally known as Isimun)

__**"...While you live,** _ _ __**_Drink!--for once dead you never shall return.”_ ** _ _

__**-Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, XXXIV** _ _

* * *

Dís daughter of Frís found herself slipping noiselessly out of bed. in a nightgown and slippers, for no good reason at all. Heavy black hair hung like a cloak about her shoulders, and her beard—artfully trimmed and shaved close on her cheeks—was as loose and tangled as the first day it’d grown in. She didn't bother to brush and braid it.

Something was amiss, though she knew not what. Call it instinct, or an old Dwarrowdam's irrational fear, she didn't care—but something told her that she had to move.

Dís had never slept well. She couldn't recall a time when she hadn't been plagued by night-terrors,  blinking away fitful bursts of panic and color in the dead of night, chest heavy and breath lost. They had even continued in the Halls. Her family had gotten horribly strung up over it (no matter how many times she told them that it was perfectly normal, they’d all still followed her about like a toddler, and Víli didn't sleep for days ). Óin had prescribed all sorts of remedies, even going so far as to suggest she ask their Maker about it. Much to his chagrin, she’d laughed right to his face. She wasn't some naive child riddled with nightmares of the unknown; she knew exactly what it was that sucked the breath from her chest as she slept, and she needn't bother Mahal with it.

She’d done perfectly well on her own with them, after all.

Annoying, niggling little things, she thought as she sped down the corridor, heart hammering. But this felt different. Not memories or a nightmare. Something far more immediate.

Dís stepped into the quiet cavern that housed the still waters of Gimlîn-zâram, and paused to inhale the unnameable scent of cold water and earth. Even after all these years, the star-pools never ceased to leave her in awe.

She hadn't expected to see any of her family about this “late”, yet there was her youngest sitting stiffly on one of the many ornate benches, grumbling to himself. There were others scattered about, their eyes dull and staring into space, but they paid her no heed as she strode up to her boy.

Dís stopped behind Kíli and peered over his shoulder. It was still such an odd thing to see her hair so dark and her face so young! She made faces at the reflection until Kíli snorted and looked back at her.

"Can’t sleep again, 'amad?" he asked lightly. “I don’t suppose you've come to take over the watch for me?”

"Frerin late again, is he?” she said as an answer, settling beside him.

Kíli nodded, resting his chin on her shoulder like he’d done as a babe when things didn’t go his way. “He used to jump at the chance, until Éowyn finally passed. Now I’m lucky if he shows up at all. Can’t  say I blame him, I suppose, though I wish Ori wouldn't always put me right before him. ”

Dís clucked her tongue at his words as she moved a strand of hair behind his ear. Why he still didn’t braid it was beyond her. ” I’m sure he has a perfectly good reason, Kílinith— tilt your head, would you? You need a braid…There. I could feel your brooding though the bedrock, you know. Has your Uncle been giving you lessons?”

Kíli snickered, his face brightening up instantly, and chasing away Dís’ irrational worries for a moment. “I’d rather sit here with nothing to do!” He replied before turning back to his reflection, glowering at it almost as skillfully as his Uncle could. “Nothing interesting happens anymore,” he sighed, twisting the end of the plait between two fingers. “At least, nothing we can change.”

"Try not thinking of it that way, hm? Watching people is always a pleasure," Dís answered wistfully. "To see how they’re doing, and know the world goes on."

Kilí sighed. “'Amad, I’ve been dead much longer than you.” (She scowled at that) “I’ve watched more people born, live, and pass on than I care to think about. Believe me, it gets dreadfully dull. Besides,” he placed an arm around her shoulders and smiled that all too mischievous little smile of his. “Everyone I ever cared to watch are here in the Halls with me now. I— what are you doing?”

"I’m curious if foul thoughts are just a habit of this family, or if the pools have something to do with it." Dís arched an eyebrow at him before leaning forward and dipping a curious fingertip into the pool. The water was cold- like any other underground lakes would be.

“What a shame,” she said aloud, shrugging, “ It must just be the blood then.”

Kíli  gave her an incredulous look and shook his head with a soft laugh.

“I’m glad to have you here,” he continued. “It’s strange to think you ever weren’t.”

Dís felt hot tears prick her eyes, but they didn’t fall. Instead she pulled her youngest son closer, and pressed her lips to his forehead. And it was his forehead; his playful brown eyes blinking up at her. By Mahal, there’d been a time when she’d thought she’d never hear his voice again. A time when she’d been surrounded by family, but so utterly alone that she’d had to learn not to cry or risk weeping every moment of the day.

Her son finally returned the kiss to her forehead and rested his chin atop her head, his barely-bearded face flushed.

"Men lananubukhs menu, Kílinîth ." she cooed at him softly.

He blushed even brighter and smiled back, “Love you too, 'amad.”

 "Well. Maybe I should come back another time.” A voice suddenly laughed.  Both mother and son looked behind them just in time to see Frerin cross his arms, his youthful features still giving Dís the briefest of pauses. He’d seemed so tall to her once. Her brother sidled up next to them, grinning from ear to ear.

“Mahal’s beard, you actually showed up this time!” Kíli exclaimed.

“Shift change, nephew,” Frerin said pleasantly, pretending to ignore him. “Hullo, Dís. Can’t sleep again?”

“Always.” Dís answered as she moved to let him sit as well. The bench was crowded, but none of them cared to move to one of the other empty ones.

“About time you got here, little uncle,” Kíli said over her head. “You’re never- ow!”

“Don’t you go acting rude again,” Dís said sternly. “I raised you better than that.  Address him properly.”

Kíli rubbed at his ear where she had just pinched it, a look of unfairness in his eyes, but he heeded her nonetheless and said: ” Ori would have your beard if he knew how late you always are, uncle.” (He barely muttered the last word).

Dís could feel more than see Frerin’s smug expression. She gave him a level Don’t-You-Start-In-Too look, and he swallowed. “Anything interesting?” he asked innocently.

"We were just arguing that," Dís said in mock seriousness."My son here says there’s nothing.”

"Does he now? Well, my dear Kílinîth, your Uncle can fix that," he said, smiling at the aghast look on Kíli’s face," What about Gimli?"

"Sleeping." Kíli answered irritably.

"Hm. What about Legolas ?"

Kíli’s frown broke slightly, and the corners of his mouth tucked up. “Who d’you think Gimli is sleeping with?”

Her brother let out a soft ‘ah’ and turned bright as a beet under his golden braids.

"What about Aragorn?" he added hastily.

Kíli snorted. “If I wanted to watch a king listen to the complaints of the people, I’d go into the mess hall and watch Grandfather try to reconcile Narvi and Dori. Next.”

"Urm. Fair enough. How about Éowyn’s wee ones?"

Both Kíli and Dís exchanged a look, though neither said a word. Frerin spoke his One’s name with such ease—it seemed almost eerie. She’d only just passed. Dís swallowed back words of comfort that were building in her throat. What good would they be to someone who had only just lost a One? They all knew that pain, knew words were moot and worthless, no matter how kind.

So instead, Kíli chuckled. “'Wee'? Little un—er, Frerin, one has a child!”

"So?" Frerin said defensively. "They’ll always be wee toddling Éadlyn and Elboron to me."

"Well the wee toddlers are all fast asleep , too. As I should’ve been. Two hours ago," he rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Actually, make that three."

"I think that means ya should apologize, big brother," Dís whispered through the side of her mouth, feeling like a child of twenty teasing her sibling.

"Aye, it does," Frerin let out a heavy sigh as if he were about to do just that, and looked her son straight in the face. "…Faramir?"

Kíli rolled his eyes then stood up and stretched his arms above his head. “Watch who you like,” he yawned. " I’m off to bed.”

Something—she couldn’t say what— made Dís nervous to watch her son leave. Without really pondering on it, she shot out a hand to grab his sleeve.

"Stay," she said, working to keep her voice in check." How about Erebor? I’ve been meaning to lay my eyes upon it again. Check on the Prince perhaps." It kept gnawing at her, to see it again. To make sure it and those within were sound. Had she dreamt of it? Or perhaps the quake had left more shaken than she’d thought. Either way, Dís had the desperate urge to gaze upon that bloodthirsty peak once again.

Kíli blinked down at her, brows puckering ever so slightly when he saw the pinch of worry tug his mother’s mouth down. He and Fíli could always read her too well; they were both too much like their father that way. He sank back down beside her with a soft “Of course” and began to braid her hair for her till it hung as one thick plait down her back. (“Can’t have you look like you just rolled out of bed, 'amad.”)

"Aye, Erebor sounds good. It’s Durin’s Day too, isn’t it?" asked Frerin, who’d also moved a fraction closer to his little sister when he’d heard the quietest of tremors in her voice.

Kilí straightened away from his mother and shrugged, “More like the aftermath of Durin’s Day,” he  replied jokingly. “They had fireworks and kegs upon kegs of ale from the south last I checked.”

"It can’t have lasted long, I imagine, " Dís said, deadpan. "Every dwarf in the mountain will have had a drop."

"Or twelve," Frerin grinned wide. “Maybe Dori’s replacement will get sodden drunk and dance about the great hall in his underthings again."

“The Stiffbeard? I’d nearly forgotten  about that…”

Dís nodded, hooking an arm around one elbow from each. “An’ you said nothing of interest was happening. You’re a terrible liar, inúdoy. Right then, let’s be off before we miss all the fun.”

"Bombur and Dáin’ll be sore we didn’t ask them along," Frerin pointed out. "You know how much they like to compare whose beard Prince Durin got."

"Ach, let them be sore! We’ll have plenty to tell them over breakfast. " Dís replied stubbornly.

Even as they laughed together, and the invisible tides of the pools began to pull them on their way, the sinking weight in Dís' chest didn’t ease away. It stayed, nibbling,  just waiting to choke the breath from her throat.

_~*~_

_...He hears laughter. It echoes throughout the fathomless halls of Khazad-dûm, and allows his worried heart to sing with the joy of it. For once, the strange sense of foreboding he has is driven away by happier things-- dwarves were meant for mining, were they not? Only a fool would say they were delving too deep, that greed was consuming them. He chuckles as he absentmindedly twists the ring on his gnarled finger. Only a fool would worry over such a thing..._

Durin blinked just as a knock came at his chamber door. He's barely half-dressed, hair a frenzied mass down his back, and he's clutching the finger of his right hand tight. The feeling in it hadn't returned, but the ghost of his old ring still seemed to weigh it down. It's been centuries, he repeats to himself, even as his breath hitches. Centuries, Durin. Centuries. An age long past; a mistake long made. The hold on his finger tightened and he-

He heard another knock. Louder this time. Pounding and booming, and he knows exactly who it must be. There was only one Dwarrowdam in the of whole of Erebor that couldn't ever leave well enough alone.

"Ya better be ready in there, Durin!" came his cousin's raucous voice  through the thick stone doors. "C'mon now, you're expected, ya lazy pile o' stones!"

"Just a--oof, just a minute!" Durin roared back, hopping on one foot as he attempted to pull his other boot on before sitting at the edge of his bed. This would be easier with two arms, he mused bitterly as the metal buckle kept slipping loose between his fingers. Mountains easier.

"Throw on a cloak an' be done with it," Gara groaned, muffled through the door. "I'll give ya to the count of three, wee cousin, or I'm comin' in!"

Thank Mahal for small mercies. At least she was willing to wait til the count of three this time.

Durin worried his lower lip and gave another determined twist of his fingers. The metal clicked into place just as Gara burst in.

"Is patience really that difficult for you?" Durin said as he stood on his feet, and picked up the silver-mesh belt to put around his waist.

Gara stood before him, arms akimbo. "Is takin' help for you?" she replied.

Durin grunted. "I'll ask for help when I require it." Part of him knew it would have been a better idea to keep the helpful attendants that he'd found in his chambers upon his return, but the mere thought of needing aid to simply get dressed brought venom to his mouth, and he'd scared them both off quick enough.

Even now he couldn't say he regretted the decision much.

The belt fell from his fingers and landed in a shining pile among the rushes. He let out a low curse, but his cousin guffawed at him, round face shifting into a teasing grin as she stooped to pick it up and pull it around his waist in one quick movement.

"Oh, stop bein' such a surly grump," she said flatly, turning him round and grabbing thick tendrils of his fire-copper hair in her blunt fingers. "It's your day, right? Try to enjoy yourself."

"I'm not in the mood for merry-making," Durin said with a sigh, handing his lineage clasp to his cousin as she continued to braid his hair. That morning, things had seemed well enough. He'd eaten with his parents, laughed, enjoyed himself, but once left to his own devices he'd wanted nothing more to get away from all the hustle and bustle of the celebration. It left a sour taste in his mouth. "How can I be," he continued. "When Alvís's death still hangs about my neck like a noose?"

He didn't get a reply.

Gara pressed a hand to his shoulder, signaling she was done, and that he should turn around. He complied, and soft brown eyes assessed him minutely. She put a finger to her lips and moved his fringe of bangs this way and that, humming thoughtfully like a jeweller assessing the worth of a stone, until he batted her hand away with a snort.

He was met with another familiar smile, his cousin's rotund face brightening up as she thumped him playfully on the chest, "Just making sure ya look decent for the visitin' dignitaries," she said innocently. "Can't have you lookin' like ya don't want to be there."

"That's exactly what I want!" Durin replied childishly.

"Tough." Gara pulled his collar out and began to lace the front up. "Quit being such a wee baby."

Durin glowered down at her, still not feeling half as tall as he should, compared to her. "You're not much better with your hair like that," he grumbled.

"Ach!" Gara bellowed, immediately pressing protectively at the thick frizzy buns at the nape of her neck. "It has to be that way for my dance! The last thing I want to do is accidently lop off a braid while twirlin' an axe. Speakin' of, you'd best get movin', or you'll end up missing it. Where's your cloak?"

"In the wardrobe," answered Durin as she raced over in a twirl of skirts and clunking axes at her belt. "Ya sure my sorry excuse for a braid won't distract ya?"

"Pah." He heard.

He grinned, "What about my eyes, then? I'd hate to blind ya."

"Don't be makin' excuses, wee cousin! I'll be concentrating so hard, your star-eyes won't matter." she replied tartly, throwing his cloak at him.

"Just makin' sure," he replied.

Gara clapped her meaty hands together, "Alright, yer dressed. Ya got your boots, yer clasp, an' your hair an' beard aren't a complete disgrace. Anythin' else?"

He didn't mean for his eyes to slip towards his side table, where three metal beads rested upon a bed of light cloth, but Gara caught it. She followed his line of sight, and let out a quiet breath of air.

"Listen," she said softly, and the rough rumble of her voice had hushed. "I miss him, too."

Durin looked at her from under his bangs, his throat tight, "Do you think he blames me?"

"No! Were ya hit so hard in the head ya forgot how he was?" asked Gara sharply, voice returning to normal as quickly as it had changed. She sped to the table, lifted one of the beads and returned to him with a swiftness that someone of her girth shouldn't possess ( it was said she was nearly as large as their shared grandfather, Bombur, had been at their age) and slipped it deftly at the end of one small braid near his ear. "Alvís was never one for blame, an' he thought the world of you, Durin. Lalâkhel! Now go on, get you gone before the King tans my hide for ya bein' late!"

Durin nodded, giving her a wane little smile as he pulled his cloak of dark blue with a silvered hem and cowl over his shoulders, covering his bad arm. "Thank you," he said.

She shooed off the thanks with a wave of one pudgy arm. "Thank me by smilin' a little more, and putting those legs to good use, eh? Alvís wouldn't blame ya, but he'd be cross to know you're moppin' about like a forlorn little puppy."

They both left his rooms together. The passage of the royal wing was utterly empty--everyone having already left to begin celebrations.

She turned back around a final time as they went down opposite ends of the corridor, "An' don't go missin' my dance, ya hear?" she shouted.

~*~

Frerin scowled and crossed his arms as the two young dwarves left the hall. Dís looked down at him.

"What is it?" she asked, the unfamiliar stillness of his expression unnerving her. "Does something trouble you?"

"Not sure," Frerin shook his blond head. "It's probably nothing."

"Then it won't hurt to tell us, nadad."

Her brother stared after the Prince the longest, "They said their friend died, aye?" he asked.

"In the cave-in," replied Kíli. "Crushed beneath a boulder beside the Prince," he shuddered. "Horrible stuff."

"Hmm," Frerin tugged at his beard. "I never saw him appear in the Halls."

Dís' arm hair stood on end, "What's that mean?"

"Probably nothing, like I said.  Everyone arrives in their own time. It's just...Hmm, it's just strange. I'll be back, there's something I need to check."

~*~

The procession from Dale was already at the front gates of Erebor by the time the Prince found his way there. Durin snuck up as softly as he could, but still felt a familiar arm stop him in his tracks.

"Busted," Kíli hummed.

Captain Thorin stood just outside of the gathering of dignitaries dressed in dwarven regal armor of boiled leathers and steel maille, with the sigil of the Line of Durin emblazoned on his chest piece . "You're late, lad," He noted as he studied Durin, brow raised. "What in Mahal's name attacked your hair?"

"Gara." Durin whispered back, straightening up when his father looked back, and beckoned him over with a nod of his head.

The King was garbed in trimmings much more ceremonial than Durin remembered from that morning: a rich purple robe with gold on the cuffs, clasps of gold in his red beard, and the Raven Crown nestled atop his smoke-colored hair like the peak of the Lonely Mountain itself. He always could look stately when he had the mind to.

"My son finally decided to join us after all." The Stonehelm said, even as he squinted a smile at Durin.

Durin held his head high as he approached them, feeling rather underdressed in comparison. He stopped before a woman dressed nearly as nobly as his father, with a net of gold lace atop her bare head.

Queen Brenna of Dale placed a ring-laden hand on his shoulder.

"It is good to see you, Prince Durin," She said, and inclined her shaven head so that the tiny chains of gold tinkled past her ears in a flood. "It brings my heart ease to see you well."

Durin bowed in the way of the dwarves with practiced ease, thankful he only needed one arm for it.

"And it gladdens me to know that, milady," he answered back. "I apologize for the my tardiness. I've...had a rather rough time remembering which arm goes where."

She lifted  her hand and smiled cheerily down at the dwarf,  "No apologies. Though I'd assumed you'd be more thoughtful for an old friend."

That was the cue for social etiquette to be abandoned for a moment, and Durin grinned widely up at her.

"Back from Rhûn so soon, Brenna," Durin said. "Just in time for the festivities, eh?"

"Actually, I came as soon as I heard what had befallen you," she dipped her chin. "I'm so sorry for that, Durin."

He forced a smile up at her even as a snag of guilt jabbed at his stomach like a dagger, " No apologies," he repeated back to her. "It wasn't by any fault of yours."

"Still--"

He felt his father tap him on the back with his palm. "It was a scare, little more. He's safe back with us now." His voice rumbled with an air of finality that caused the Dalefolk's queen to nod her bald head quietly, and drop the subject.

Durin's jaw worked. His father needn't have done that--he wasn't a child that couldn't face reality.

"What of Bern?" Durin asked, and looked across the row of various courtiers. "Where is the lad? He was almost taller than me last time we met, and I was hopin' to have him beat."

Brenna's mouth quirked down slightly, "He remains in Rhûn. I returned alone."

Durin frowned, "It's a bad idea to leave your boy with foul folk like that, Brenna," he remarked.

The Dale Queen's storm-grey eyes met his, and they were both fierce and complacent at once. "I hadn't a choice in the matter," she answered bitterly. "His father's people don't  take what I wish to heart what I would like them to, and Bern wished to learn more of them. They couldn't have cared less that I was returning to my home, as long as he was given leave to stay with them."

"It's a dull kind that doesn't take a mother's thoughts into account," answered Durin hotly. "I would think they'd have learned to respect their womenfolk more."

 Brenna shook her head, ever the even-handed stateswoman, " It is less for my gender, but moreso because I am an outsider."  She said, raising her chin up as the attendants and scribes behind her began to murmur among themselves. "But that is all that should be said of that matter."

"Aye," the Stonehelm agreed, having watched the conversation between his son and the young queen like a silent hawk. "Durin. that is sound advice."

Brenna pulled her fine shawl about her as a cold evening wind snapped it like a whip through the air. "Well, I don't know about you, my liege, but I believe I would like to return to my warm hearth now."

"I didn't plan to keep you here long this long, Brenna," His father glanced sidelong at Durin. "You didn't mind, I hope?"

"Ach, never!" Brenna said, her voice slipping into the slightest of Dwarvish burrs before she cleared her throat. It tended to happen to Dale folk that spent their days since swaddling clothes dealing with dwarves. "Ah...never, my lord. It's always a pleasure. Farewell."

"Farewell, Brenna." The Stonehelm answered, and Durin did the same.

Durin crept silently away as the last farewells were said among the attendants, and Captain Thorin pulled his father aside for a word.

He was nearly lost in the maze of corridors cut in the solid green stone when someone cleared their throat, and Durin looked sheepishly up at his father.

The Stonehelm looked askance at him. "'Forgot which arm goes where', hm?"

Durin sucked on his teeth a moment and then replied, "Aye."

"Durin," the King rumbled as he kept pace with him. "The attendants were there for a reason, lad. To _help_."

"'Adad. I don't need any help gettin' dressed," said Durin stubbornly. "I managed well enough."

His father chuckled into his beard, "Aye. An' I'm assuming that's Gara's handiwork hanging from your head like a fallen tree?"

The tips of Durin's ears began to burn like embers from the forge. Everyone was going to point it out, weren't they? Before he could retort, however, his father clapped him on the back.

"Oh, m'boy, it's fine. At least she got ya out of there."

"So it was you that sent her, "Durin accused. "Traitor, I should've known. Even 'amad wouldn't stoop that low."

"I did, I did," his father confessed with a mischievous smile. "Durin lad, I know you. You wouldn't have left the room if I hadn't."

"You could've just sent Captain Thorin, y'know."

"An' he would've given you your privacy for as long as he was able," said the Stonehelm peaceably. "Ach, he's a fine, loyal Dwarf, but he's never listened to a word I said when he believes his reasoning to be sound. Besides, your cousin is much more persuasive."

"I think ya mean 'invasive', adad," Durin quipped playfully.

"Whatever I meant by it, at least it worked!" his father replied as he reached for his son's head. "Let's fix that, shall we?"

Durin, still smarting from earlier, stepped clear of his father's hands.

"Da'," he glanced around. "Not in front of everyone," he murmured.

Standing beside them, Dís couldn't help but smirk at the exchange. The Stonehelm was hardly ever playful, save with close family, and it was a quaint thing to see.

"What has you smiling?" Kíli asked curiously. "Poor Durin, having everyone fiddle about with his hair like that!"

Dís just chuckled into her hair like the Stonehelm and ruffled Kíli's head.

"Alright, alright, my boy, I won't embarrass ya, "The Stonehelm laughed and waved his blocky hands. "Off with you now. Go watch your cousin, or find a decent niche to fix your hair in. Have a drink or two if you wish, lad. I'm off to find your mother."

As the King left him, Durin seemed lost in thought for a moment. His good hand strayed to just behind his ear, fiddling with something that Dís couldn't see.

"Where do you think he'll go?" Kíli asked. "He looks a bit confused."

"Hopefully he'll take his father's advice," Dís replied. "Or perhaps he'll return to his rooms again."

Not surprisingly, Durin did neither of those things.

~*~

_...When Náin comes to him to tell him not to go, he is infuriated. How dare the boy put any merit into the mutterings of outsiders? If he is to one day be king of the greatest Dwarven Kingdom on Middle Earth, he should learn to trust his own instincts above all others. Yet his son seems truly shaken, and he begs him to flee with the rest of the kingdom. Live to fight another day. Perhaps-- No. He is Durin, King of Khazad-dûm and progenitor of the Longbeards; eldest and first of his kind. He remembers the days before the Elves had wandered from the East or returned from the West; when great Men lived and died fighting fiends that none alive now could recall. Save him. Only him. No, he will not leave behind all that he has worked for..._

The door to the modest living quarters was slightly ajar when Durin came upon it, and no light shown inside.

He stopped just before knocking, wondering if he shouldn't turn back now. But no, he couldn't. The thought of enjoying himself, or even of slinking back to his chambers made his stomach turn. No, he was here. He would do what he needed to.

He knocked softly with the back of his hand. Once, twice. Three times, and definitely not as loud as Gara would have.

No answer.

But the door was open. Looking around him, Durin pressed his way in anyway.

Kíli and Dís followed.

"Breaking an' entering," Dís whispered. "What is this lad up to?"

Kíli shrugged. "I think this was the bead-carver's home," he answered, then added. "You really don't need to whisper. They can't hear us"

She shushed him.

Prince Durin spun around the quiet room, odd eyes catching whatever bits of light they could find to shine with a cat-like luminescence.

"Finrís?" he called gently, moonlight-silver eyes still searching.

Dís picked her way carefully over discarded carving tools and broken pottery.

It seemed terribly familiar, the utter rage she felt from this mess.

"He shouldn't have come here," she told Kíli. "This mother is mourning."

"You."

All three turned to find a gaunt-faced, dead-eyed Dwarrowdam stagger in from another room. Her scraggly beard was poorly shorn, half longer than the other, and she blinked sluggishly at the Prince.

Durin approached her. "Finrís. Please, I--"

"You!" The Dwarrowdam stabbed a finger at his chest. "How dare you show your face here, ushuka ! After what befell my boy because of YOU!" Her noxious breath stunk of liquor, but there was no hint of merriment in her drinking. "Get out."

"I came to--"

"I said idlig!" She hissed, spittle flying from her lips. "Your apologies are nothing but hollow words to me. They are nothing but wind!"

Durin squared his thick shoulders, "I will not leave until I have said my piece. Please, I must speak with you."

"Why? To make yourself feel better?" she accused. " To talk of better days when my Alvís was around? He's dead, milord. Worse even, I can feel it in my heart of hearts. He didn't even die a noble death--he died a fool's death following a fool unworthy of his name."

The words stung, and Durin winced as he fought to keep his mouth tight.

"I loathe the day when your father passes an' leaves this kingdom to you," she continued angrily. "For that day will be the day that our race is led to ruin!"

There was a sudden, weighted silence, with nobody willing to say a word. Finrís screwed her eyes shut, and began to keen softly.

"My boy, my baby. He was all I had left..." she wept quietly.

"You are right," Durin finally said. "I was not deserving of his friendship, or his trust. I am unworthy. I just--I needed to see if there was any way I could help you. It's what Alvís would have wanted."

Dís was taken aback by the Prince's words. No child should think that way of themselves, no one should be so self-recriminating.

It reminded her too much of how Thorin had been, and she knew what kind of outcome it could bring.

Finrís glared at him with blistering-red eyes as she stumbled to a chair, knocking a canister of paints aside. "D'ya know what he really wanted, Prince? It was to live," she smiled sardonically. "T'bring some honor to his family, an' to you."

"I know that," Durin said, and sidled closer. A strange, resentful part of him welcomed the fact that someone was so readily blaming him. It felt more truthful than being told it wasn't his fault, no matter how scathing it felt to hear it. "I know, I do." He reached out a shaking hand, placing it over the Dwarrowdam's gnarled fist. "Please," he repeated again. "Let me help you any way that I am able."

"Boy, do you really wish to help me?"

He nodded earnestly, and she pointed a carved box out to him that lay on the floor near Dís' slippered feet.

The Prince left the old woman at the table, and stepped cautiously over to where she pointed. For a moment, it seemed like he looked straight at Dís with those eerie star-eyes of his, and she had the urge to tell him that it wasn't his fault. But his eyes looked unseeing past her face as he knelt down at an awkward angle to pick up the small chest in one hand. It was tiny, but deep, made of wood and filled with hundreds of hair beads.

"Take that and place it before the feet of your forebears," Finrís explained listlessly, and all the venom--all anything-- slipped from her heavy voice to make it sound deflated and voidless. "He always wished to provide beads worthy of kings, but the miners won't allow me leave to...to go where the quake hit." Her eyes wouldn't meet his gaze, but they were bright. Fury bright. "For I am not of noble blood, and foolish decisions aren't mine to make."

Durin clutched the box close, the insides clinking together like a set of chains.

"I will take it there," Even if he was forbidden to. It hadn't stopped him the first time he'd gone down there, had it? " It will be done, Finrís." he promised.

"Just go."

Durin blinked, then nodded as he turned on his heel and left the mother to her grief.

~*~

The Great Hall was hushed when Durin arrived just inside the archway, it's golden floor reflecting the muted faces of hundreds of dwarves, all circled around a single makeshift stage. Atop that was Gara, broad body taking up nearly half the stage while the other was occupied by a giant drum turned on its side, and a percussionist holding a mallet with a yarn head.

He'd promised to watch, and he wouldn't forsake one promise for another.

She looked nervous, but kept herself still as stone even as her ankles twitched just beneath the hem of her gown.

The musician had just given the signal, and Gara nodded her round head at him as she reached behind her shoulder.

Three broadaxes as long as her arm, with large double bits and long beards that gleamed dangerously in the torchlight came back clutched in her hand. Durin watched as she took a breath as the first drum boom thrummed, her muscles straining to stay steady as she tossed one. It cart wheeled in the air for three hits, the edge seeming to narrowly miss her face. When that one reached its apex, she threw up the second one. With the first one came falling back, she caught it by the tips of her fingers around the pommel, and tossed the third one, not skipping a beat, and soon all three were hissing through the air in a mad flicker.

The three spun, a blur all around her. Durin wouldn't have noticed how she subtly reached for the two small hatchets in her girdle if he hadn't watched her practice so often in the infirmary, and he smiled when the crowd around him murmured in excitement as they noticed.

Five axes. All wickedly sharp, flipping through the air with a dangerous grace. At one point, she wobbled. Just a bit, but the entire hall held its breath. The razor hook of one nicked the side of her bushy sideburns, sending a few mousy brown strands floating to the floor, but she ignored it as she continued her steps as the drum beat began to pick up speed.

Gara's strained face glistened with sweat, but still the axes danced through the air. When the two smaller ones danced full circle around her shoulders, it looked utterly impossible. Faster and faster and faster the mallet thumped the drum head,  and closer and closer and closer still the axes fell around her, until, with one last turn that sent the thick material of her skirts flowing about her like water , she caught the three large axes by their hafts, one in her left hand, two in her right. Of the two smaller ones, one slipped easily in the back loop of her belt just as the last beat rebounded through the hall, while the other bounced off an unruly fold, clattering loudly off the stage and onto the golden floor.

Durin saw the way his cousin's large shoulders tensed at the sound as her chest heaved for breath. The room was silent, and he could see her honey-colored eyes widen at the noiseless buzz. But yet she held herself still as she could.

When triumphant applause overflowed the hall, the pell-mell of congratulations left Gara glowing.

"That's my girl! Bloody brilliant! That's my girl!!" Alfur roared louder than the rest, clapping his hands. Folk rushed the stage, the fallen hatchet handed to her along with many 'well-done's' and 'I've not seen such skill in a very long time's. Gara grinned like a fool, her eyes bright with exhaustion and pride. When they caught sight of Durin, he winked and moved his hand to signal her. Damned good job, cousin. Magnificent.

Her smile widened. She seemed about to pull away when another wave of dwarves crowded about her and she shrugged at him apologetically. Durin waved her off with a laugh, his heart alight with pride for his cousin. She was a real talent, the likes of which came but once in a lifetime. He was more proud of her than he could say.

He felt a slight tremor run through his upper arm. Adjusting his hold on Alvís's carving box to the crook of his elbow,  Durin messaged his shoulder as he turned from the lights, and the cheer, and made his way down into the deepest parts of the mountain.

~*~

There were a handful of miners still hovering about the entrance to the partially caved in tombs when Durin arrived there. The Prince pulled a hand down his face in exasperation . In their center was the scarred head of the miner's guild, her rough face promising no leave for him. How was he to get past the likes of her?

Oh, sod it.

"Shamukh, Prince Durin," she greeted civilly as he came up to them. "What business do ya have here?"

"Shamukh, er..." Blast it all, what was her name? Durin wracked his brain fitfully. "... Dezbel?"

"Aye, your highness?" she asked him dryly.

"I need to --" he stopped midsentence as a half-baked idea suddenly crept into his mind. "Ah...Bursi sent me."

That caught the miners' attention. Each of them visibly groaned.

"What does he need this time?" Dezbel questioned skeptically.

"He wouldn't say. He just said he required the Head of the Miner's Guild at 'the greatest possible haste'," Durin made air quotes with his good hand. "Why else would he send me of all people?"

The miner's nostrils flared in irritation for a moment, and it seemed as though she would refuse.

But they both remembered the type of stink the newly ordained Guildmaster could bring up when he wasn't heeded, and no one liked dealing with the irate Stiffbeard pestering them at all hours.

Dezbel grunted as she dusted off her trousers. "Very well," she said. " Oy, up you get you lot! Go off an' enjoy the festivities for a bit, but be back here 'fore the ravens caw, or it'll be your beards."

 Her grey head turned back to Durin as many of the younger miners whooped and left. "I'll go see what Master Bursi needs o' me, but I'm leaving one o' my boys here. No one is to go down there," she stated. "Not with half the cavern liable to collapse on your head at any moment. " The 'again' was left hanging over both of them like an anvil straining a rope, and Durin ignored it as he nodded.

"Aye, of course."

The one miner left behind was an apprentice younger even than Durin, who dug the butt of his pick into the stone as he fumed over the misfortune of being left behind.

After making sure the others were gone, Durin stepped up to him.

The apprentice noticed the boot toes, and looked up slowly from where he sat. Durin was giving him one of the fiercest scowls Dís had ever seen, lids hooded and eyes glowing silver in the dim light.

"Move aside."

The apprentice gulped. "Um..uh, er..."

Durin sighed and pushed past him, "Jus' tell them I forced my way in. They won't put it past me," he said, and disappeared down the dark tunnel.

Kíli shook his head in disbelief. "How did that possibly work?"

~*~

_...He knows well his Maker's wrath and woe; he remembers when gods roamed Arda when the world was new. He remembers his Father putting his children to sleep, and the terror of not knowing if he would ever awaken again. How dare his own flesh and blood think him craven enough to flee! To leave behind what he has spent lifetimes amassing? His axe shall taste the blood of whatever foul creature lurks in the bowels of his home, of that he is sure..._

The royal crypt of Erebor had stone walls of green gem interspersed with veins of gold. In any other instance, it would have been a wonder to behold, but amid the rubble and wreckage that the quake had caused it seemed little more than a mockery.

Dís and Kíli followed behind Prince Durin as he descended lower and lower into the tombs.

They passed by Dís' own stone recreation in a newer niche--thankfully spared any lasting damage--and she offered it a perfunctory look.  Stern and solemn, with impressions of her old mourning tattoos etched onto its face with a masterful hand. Part of her missed those: the look and care she'd put into them--perhaps she'd get another. Though it certainly wouldn't be for grieving this time around.

Kíli caught the movement of her head and followed her gaze.

"You ever miss it?" he asked her. "Being in the living world?"

Dís lingered on the grim face. "Not in the slightest," she answered bluntly. "All I miss are those I've left behind."

They continued to descend, the air becoming warmer and warmer the further they went. The Prince seemed to have a destination in mind as he walked briskly with a purpose.

The trio stopped just outside an arch halfway buried in rubble. A miner's candle with its wick half submerged in wax flickered just outside it.  in Dís noted the way Kíli swallowed.

"Well," he said softly. "I haven't been to my own grave since the burial."

Dís didn't want to hear about that. No, not at all.

"You can go if you must, my joy," she said kindly.

Kíli smiled at her. "We're already here, 'amad," he said. "Besides--" he looked over at the Prince, who was struggling to make enough space to fit inside. "--We can't just leave brash young fool alone down here."

"Aye, you're right," she answered.

With a final huff, the small boulder was moved. The arch groaned above the Prince's head, and bright eyes glanced up in worry. But it only lasted but a moment.

Durin got back to his feet. "Just a moment, just a moment," he kept repeating to himself as he tapped the top of the carved box. "Be out before anythin' happens, Durin."

They entered the mouth of the dark tomb, dusty canvas sheets covering half the place and support beams the other. There stood the stone recreations of Thorin Oakenshield, Fíli and Kíli, each face somber with bits broken off from all of them.

But Durin wasn't looking there. He was looking in the corner, and he was as still as a hare caught in a predator's gaze.

Dís nudged Kíli and they both looked where he did. Someone was moving, but it was too dark even for their dwarf-sight to tell who. Durin however, looked as though death itself had just grinned at him. Stepping back, the Prince gently laid the small chest down and stepped just outside the large apse to grab the sputtering candle by its holder. He crept silently back in and held it before him, eerie eyes squinting.

It wasn't one of the miners. It was something Dís had never, ever seen.

"What in Mahal's name is that?" said Dís, and every dark feeling in her gut came roiling back. "What is it?"

Kíli shook his dark head as he gripped her hand tight. "I-I don't know."

The eerie creature was a black shape amongst the dark shadows, looking like a piece of the night itself torn from the cloth of the evening sky. But no stars shown in its endless dark depths. It was a black space, nothing. No thing at all. Yet it continued to creep like a rodent looking for food across the edge of the royal tomb.

Dís' heart beat in her throat as whatever it was continued to move over her brother and son's tombs, or what remained of them, at least. She felt her son shiver when it passed over his craggy visage, this terror that cast no shadow.

"It's like someone's thrown my bones in ice water!" he whispered fiercely.

Dís set herself.

"Go," she said urgently, pressing into his shoulder. "Get your uncle."

"I'm not leavin' you here alone, amad!" he growled. "Not with that."

"Will ya heed me for once, my joy?" she growled right back. " _Go_. It can't hurt what's already dead," she glanced at Prince Durin, who still remained frozen to the spot at the mouth of the tombs. "You needn't fear for me. Now go!"

Kíli seemed about to protest again, but then met her gaze, and with one stiff nod was gone in a sudden shower of sparks.

Dís took a steadying breath, turning back to the scene. The faceless phantom darted around as if searching for something, tendril fingers sliding flatly over stone and metal like rainwater.

She gave Prince Durin a quick look, and saw his throat was bobbing as he set the candle down.

"Don't you dare," she hissed. "Foolish boy. _Don't_."

But he did.

"Ugrûdel!"  Durin called, pulling the creature from its work. It had no face, only the shadowed impressions of eyes and a mouth, but its absent brow still seemed to furrow in annoyance. It's body began to move toward him with the head jutting out before the rest.

Durin looked about for something to fend himself with, and spotted a hilt capped in a metal pommel, half hidden beneath canvas cloth on one of the sarcophagi. He didn't wait, leaping for it as the creature threw its entire bulk at him.

"Get you gone, foul thing. Away from this place!"

Dís recognized the finely curved blade only because she'd seen its likeness in Thorin's personal smithy.

"Orcrist," she murmured.

The creature leapt at the Prince again, succeeding in sweeping him away before he could even swing the Elvish blade.

Durin's head cracked against stone, and he gasped as he landed on his hurt arm. Bits of rubble showered down on him as he gripped the sword hilt tight and pointed it straight ahead of him.

"Stay back!" Durin snarled, loud and low, fear gone from his face, and replaced by sound bravery that seemed to take over their line in times of great need. He struggled to his feet by pressing his back to the wall and sliding up it. He stared wide-eyed up at the apparition, taking an unconscious gulp as it's shaded head swung like a pendulum his way. The creature, or whatever in Mahal's bloody bones it was, did not seem of this world. It slipped and slid on the stone like shadow itself as it scuttled toward him, molding with each shadow it passed.

"Have you away from here!" Durin yelled, slashing with the sword. The creature's body simply slipped around it like mist.

"Oh no," Dís couldn't breathe. Had her worries been sound? Damn it all, if only she had a weapon and a living hand to wield it with! Damn it all! Durin was caught in its clutches, kicking his feet uselessly as he was lifted clear off the ground and thrown like a doll.

"What are you?" The Prince managed to wheeze as he forced against the block plinth of one tomb. It grasped his face, enveloping his senses, and...

and he saw it.

He _saw_ it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul Translations**  
>  - _Gimlîn-zâram_ =Star-Pools  
> - _Men lananubukhs menu, Kílinîth_ = I love you, Little Kíli  
> - _Kílinîth_ = Little Kíli  
> - _inúdoy_ = son  
> - _Lalâkhel_ = fool of all fools  
> - _nadad_ = brother  
> - _'amad_ = mother  
> - _'adad_ =father  
> - _Idlig!_ = Go far away  
> - _ushuka_ = greatest craven/coward  
> - _shamukh_ = Hail (Can also be used as 'goodbye')  
> - _Dezbel_ = diamond of all diamonds  
> - _ugrûdel_ = fear/ dread of all fears/dreads (In this instance, I use it as dread)
> 
>  **Other Notes...**  
>  *Gara is NOT my OC. She--if she even is a _she_ , still not sure on that--belongs to determamfidd.
> 
> *Captain Thorin is also NOT mine. He belongs to Dets. I just borrow him because he's really awesome.
> 
> *Durin having eyes that reflect light is also NOT my headcanon. I was given generous permission to use it by, can you guess? DETERMAMFIDD! It's the only physical way that the Dwarves would be able to tell that he is in fact the reincarnation of Durin the Deathless himself. Think something along the lines of cat-eyes when a light is shined on em, and they would have a certain moonlight-silver color to them--like mithril.
> 
> *I am a rather terrible person, and horrible with change. So expect a lot of crossover between the old Neo-Khuzdul dictionary and the new one until I can get my act together.
> 
> *Alfur is one of the many sons of Bombur, and also one of Det's OCs. He is a dwarvish engineer, and hella proud of his only daughter kicking preconceived notions of beauty and grace in the booty.
> 
> *Brenna, Queen Regent of Dale and mother of Bern, is one of mine. She shaves her head as a sign of ritualistic mourning for her deceased husband--this is a Rhûnish practice, as he was an Easterling noble from a nearby territory that is sympathetic with the Reunited Kingdom.
> 
> *The Stonehelm's snazzy royal outfit is based off the one Dáin Ironfoot is wearing in _The Battle of the Five Armies Concept Book_. Here's a [link](https://atolkienistperspective.wordpress.com/2014/12/16/the-battle-of-the-five-armies-extended-edition-speculation/) to see it.
> 
> *The concept of Gimlîn-zâram and dead Dwarf Peeping Toms is not mine, either. I'm assuming y'all can guess whose it is at this point. If not, please refer to points 1,2, 3 and 5 listed above.
> 
> I cannot stress enough how amazeballs Sansûkh is, people. Or [determamfidd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/pseuds/determamfidd) herself. Mix jubilant fanfare and a crowd of screaming millions, and that's about the right idea. I also couldn't make this fic sound even remotely authentic without all the effort that the [dwarrowscholar](https://dwarrowscholar.wordpress.com/khuzdul/documents-dictionaries/) has put into their dictionaries and lessons. I'm lucky to get to use the works of both of these fantastic people. They rock. I also wanna thank all you peeps that kept bookmarks and subscriptions on this for as long as you did! It's really helped me in trying to work on this fic, and it's always a nice thing to see.


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